Whirlwing
by CarlileLovesAnime
Summary: Not your average doctor-patient relationship... GokuderaxOC
1. I Bit Di Ali Rotte

**Hi peeps! It's Carlile!**

**If you have looked at my profile, you can tell I am starting to read Katekyo Hitman Reborn! and I really like it. Especially Gokudera…*drools*…So, anyway, I couldn't help the urge to write a fic about him!**

**Please forgive any inaccuracies and OOC-ness as I have not read that far into the series yet—I am only going on the knowledge from the first dozen chapters, Wikipedia, and my friend who is totally obsessed with this series. If you can't take the crazy difference from the series, then don't read it, and certainly don't leave reviews ranting to me about how much I suck or the story sucks. And if you are a yoai lover who supports Gokudera x Yamamoto crap, then sorry, this contains no yoai, since I hate yoai more than anything—especially when the guy is as awesome (and hot!) as Hayato Gokudera. **

**I do not own Katekyo Hitman Reborn! or anything related to it. All I own is this computer and my cat. Enjoy!**

0o.o0o.o0

**I L C A P I T O L O U N : I B I T D I A L I R O T T E**

**(C H A P T E R O N E : B I T S O F B R O K E N W I N G S)**

_Dear diary,_

_I think a front is moving through town. It's been storming like crazy here for the past few hours, raining buckets and blowing leaves all around. I hope the power comes back on soon, since I find it rather hard to write with just this candle. I have to light it over and over because the flame keeps going out. This is the only thing I have to keep my sanity in this extended period of boredom._

_Ma tutte le cose devono finire. (But all things have to come to an end.)_

_Sincerely,  
Luana Diluca_

The candle blows out in perfect timing when I lean my chair back and thunder bursts through the clouds quilting the sky. I observe the lifeless ceiling for a moment before setting all the chair legs down, scooting it out from underneath my desk, and stretching my legs out by swinging them over the side. My feet slap the floor a few times before I actually stand. As soon as I am steady, thunder shakes the ground below me so violently that I grip the wall to stay up.

Grandpa's gone and I have time to do what I please. Our clinic downstairs is deathly empty—people aren't coming probably because of the turbulent storm outside, and our small town populations has drastically decreased this season due to school letting out and vacations and whatnot. But it is inevitable that without companionship or meaningful tasks, boredom sets in.

I think about my friends, most of which presently absent, as I step out of my room. My mood is beaten down by the battering storm and the darkness of this home, and the only noise in this place being my dainty steps and breathing muffled by imaginary mist.

I come into the kitchen. I'm not hungry, but I want to eat something. I take a roll from the basket near the stove, butter it lightly, and as I lean up against the front window overlooking the brick road I sink my teeth into the soft, flaky pastry. This calls forth a smile from me, a smile unfelt for weeks, and sends me into the recesses of a bright warm, dry place, teeming with loved ones and lined with rolls as far as the eye can see.

When I realize the food has left my grasp, my grin of satisfaction fades as I return to reality. The window immediately overtakes my hypnotic warmth with its smooth, chilled touch.

Perché lei deve essere così freddo e crudele, o la finestra? (Why must you be so cold and cruel, o window?)

When a whine drifts to my ears and I feel a sensation of silk at my ankle, I peer downward to see Victor greeting me after a nap. I smirk at the tiny cat and, taking him in my arms, scratch the nook at the back of his skull with my long nails. He purrs passionately.

Victor is like my child. I rescued him as a kitten about a year ago from the alley behind the clinic downstairs that my grandfather and I own and operate. He's not full-grown yet but still smaller than most cats his approximate age, and I don't understand why because he has the appetite of a horse. Victor's fur is almost pure brown except for a cream-colored "sock" on his right-front paw and "freckles" on his chubby cheeks. The glossy, downy feel of his coat is admired throughout the neighborhood and appreciated daily by me.

My cat's eyes are shut like the eyelids are powerful magnets and his socked paw kneads at my arm as I stroke him with the preferred long nails at the tips of my fingers.

Suddenly Victor stops.

I cease scratching when he stiffens up and his marigold eyes glare out the window before us.

"Lei vede qualcosa, il ragazzo??" I ask in a baby voice (You see something, boy?). He does not respond.

Wondering what he is so interested in, I watch through the fogged panes as well. What I see takes me by surprise.

There is a person stumbling exhaustedly down the road, drenched thoroughly in rain. He's clutching at his chest; he wears a black suit and his hair, silver and long, droops down over his face and sticks to his skin.

I am frozen in bewilderment, helplessly mesmerized by his struggle. Until he collapses.

I all but throw Victor back onto the floor, sprint through the rest of the apartment, and dash down the stairs outside to get to him. I don't care if I'm getting wet. I stand at the curb and look both ways, like a car would actually come down this street, and at the end of my scoping I leap over a puddle of rainwater and practically skid across the saturated bricks to get to the stranger in the middle of the road. I drop to my knees.

"Signore, lei è giusto?" I ask (Sir, are you okay?). Remembering my first aid training, I tap on his shoulders. No response. "Signore!" I shout, pressing hard on his shoulders and upper back (Sir!). No response.

I go into survival mode. Not for me, but for him. I grasp his shoulders and tip him on his arm to flip him onto his back. As soon as I get enough room to slide my hand under him to get a grip on his abdomen, I tilt him upward even more, but I feel a wet, warm sensation. I pull my hand out on reflex, and it is completely soaked in blood. Bright red, fresh, metallic, stinging blood. Mustering all my strength and will, I place my palm under him once again and with one mighty heave flip him over. A large hole is located toward the bottom of his ribcage, and it is bleeding profusely. It's a bullet wound.

I start to panic; my mind races at a million miles an hour. Is he dead? I don't think so. Is he okay? Hell no! He's been freaking shot! Am I in danger? Maybe.

Wishing more than anything I had my grandfather with me, I sit him up, put my arm around his shoulders, and take his hand into mine. Then I kneel to a stand and with much labor eventually bring him back to my room.

Non non la clinica, lo studio, ma la mia stanza. (Not the clinic, not the den, but my room.)

0o.o0o.o0

As the storm rumbles on I stand above the stranger now lying on top of my bed. Blood from the hole in his abdomen now leaks onto my blankets. I can't do anything but stare at the poor wounded person, and my cat sits loyally beside my feet.

I have never been in this situation before. My job as a future-nurse-but-for-now-assistant-nurse at the clinic has given me experience with sick patients—but only with my grandfather around—and emergency situations—but actually just simulations. I know what to do; I just don't want to do it. It's necessary to operate on him, to give him some sedative just in case he wakes up and extract the bullet. But in order to do that I have to take his shirt off.

I grew up having little interaction with boys beyond friendship, and as a child perverted thoughts never crossed my mind, but as I got older I grew into being mortified by anything of that sort, even if it was just taking off a man's shirt to operate on him. Grandpa is the main culprit for instilling this trait in me. He's always been very strict about boys and dating.

I tremulously reach toward the patient, my hand actually moving much less than I think, and I retract it. I have to but I can't! Once again I slowly stretch toward the buttons of the suit, but I pull back. I repeat this process tens of times, each time coming microscopically closer to those shiny black buttons. But when I feel a chill in the air flow against me like a breeze and I shiver, I realize my squeamishness has cost me precious time. I decide once and for all to go for it.

I slap my hand on the top button, followed immediately by the other, and my palms squish on the blood-soaked suit coat. My fingers, shaking, tuck the edge of the button underneath the hole and slide it out from underneath the cloth.

Un giù, due di andare! (One down, two to go!)

My nose adjusts to the scent of blood, and now I detect the stench of cigarette smoke. I undo the middle button and pull the unbound part of the black suit-coat apart, and to my dread I see that underneath it is a green business shirt with several tiny buttons and I'll have to remove that, too.

Finally I slide the coat off and peel away the shirt underneath, struggling against the rainwater and blood adhering to his skin. I feel exasperated when I see another shirt under it, a tank top with no buttons. Impatient from all this exhausting undressing, I tear open the bottom shirt. Beneath it I see two major things:

A gorgeous six pack of abs and a not so gorgeous six pack of dynamite.

I can't help but stare at the half-dozen sticks of explosives for a moment. Why would this guy have dynamite? Was he planning on blowing himself up or something?

Cautious as ever, I weakly pick up the pack by the wick of a stick with the tips of my fingers, like I'm holding a dirty tissue. Which I would much rather be dealing with right now and not a bloody pack of explosives.

When lightning plummets down from the sky outside my bedroom window I shriek and drop the volatile sticks to the floor. I have to glare timidly at them for a short while before continuing on my much more important mission.

0o.o0o.o0

My heart is bursting at the seams. I just performed surgery on a total stranger, by myself, no electricity, limited tools, and he's alive! Not to mention I unclothed—er, half unclothed; I didn't want to go to there—a boy for the first time in my life.

Now, wearing a bloodstained apron, I'm sifting through his coat before a much-needed shower. I find two packs of cigarettes, one of them unopened and the other nearly empty, along with a total of sixteen more sticks of dynamite. In the front pocket of the jacket I feel a leather mass. In high hopes I pull it out, and sure enough it's his wallet! I may be able to see just who he is.

I whip open the wallet. Inside are several bills of paper money, and the ink is distorted because of the water and blood soaking it so I can't tell how much it is worth, but there is quite a large sum, I _can _tell you that. There are also many credit cards, but none of them have a name, just a number. After much searching, I don't find anything else. No driver's license. No other ID cards. Nothing that can give me some insight into his identity. However, the total of items has increased by three more sticks of dynamite, a key-card for a hotel in some Asian country, and a full deck of cards.

I sigh in frustration that I can't be the best doctor I can be. Sure, I may squeamish, have neither taken nor obeyed the Hippocratic Oath, lack professionalism, and hold personal relationships with each of my patients, but I do the best I can, okay?

What I need now is a shower. But when I stand back up, I realize that without electricity the water pressure will be unbearably low. Blah. Oh well.


	2. Collegamenti

**Hey. Carlile again. The usual suspect.**

**Did you like the first chappie? Then here is more Whirlwing for your enjoyment. BTW, the title is not a typo; it really is Whirlwing, not Whirlwind. Just wanted to clear that up (:**

**Can I get 10 reviews? *crosses fingers***

**I do not own Katekyo Hitman Reborn! or anything related to it. All I own is this computer and my cat. Enjoy!**

0o.o0o.o0

**I L C A P I T O L O D U E : C O L L E G A M E N T I**

**(C H A P T E R T W O : C O N N E C T I O N S)**

_Dear diary,_

_I didn't realize how stupid I was until the thoughtlessness upon bringing the mystery patient into my room caught up with me last night. For one thing, he was on my bed, and I didn't want to lift him up again because although I bandaged him up pretty good the last thing I needed was another difficult, multiple-hour shower due to getting covered in blood. Plus I figured it was just plain bad taste to make a comatose sleep on the floor. Not only this but I was scared that the guy would wake up and see me sleeping, or worse try to kill me in my sleep. So I slept on the couch last night. It was lumpy, very lumpy._

_I didn't see Victor all night and wondered where he was until I saw this morning that he spent the night curled up beside my patient. It really freaked me out, because I have heard stories of cats that sleep beside people who are about to die, so right away I checked his pulse and breathing and everything. Perfectly fine. Anyway, I was so nervous about him waking up and whatnot that I took my clothes and changed in the bathroom. In fact, I'm writing in the kitchen right now and not at the usual spot of the desk in my room._

_La storia lunga breve, il mio dorso duole. (Long story short, my back hurts.)_

_Sincerely,  
Luana Diluca_

After I set my pen down, I take a short trip across the house to my bedroom to check on my mystery-patient. I've been pondering a good name for him, but for now Mystery-Patient is fine. I'll shorten it later. He looks so peaceful lying prone on my blood-soaked blankets; his chest wrapped in white cloth rising and falling slowly, his long silver hair sprawled out on the pillows. The mystery-patient reminds me of a small child, the way he looks so innocent and vulnerable there. Little Victor balled up by his hip adds to the image.

Now that I see him looking like this, like he should rightfully have a halo and wings, I decide what I should call him.

When I was a child growing up here in Celebrazione, my tiny, touristic hometown in southwestern Italy, a young boy lived next door to my grandfather and me. His mother was the baker in the shop on the first floor, and his father worked as manager there. I always loved the times when the couple would visit me, bringing me cookies and my personal favorite, rotoli (rolls!). The boy was only three when he died of Heart Disease. But ever since he was born, I've loved his name.

And to give him a further sense of identity, but really for my comfort, I assign a last name too. One fisherman, an older man, used to work at the docks on the outskirts of Celebrazione. I didn't have much appreciation for him until I was seven, which was the age when I spent a summer volunteering at the docks and he was my boss. Despite his rather creepy appearance, he was very kind. He treated me so well I volunteered there up until last year, when the old man had a stroke. Now he's a vegetable. But every time I visit him and help take care of him, I think of those great days as a child at the dock, smelling the salty sea breeze and dipping my toes in the water.

The little boy's name was Angelo Alberti. The old man's name is Danilo Benedetto.

His name will be Angelo Benedetto.

Not only do I want these names, but I know what they mean. Angelo means angel, and Benedetto means twice blessed. Quindi, il suo nome significa "l'angelo ha benedetto due volte" (Therefore, his name means "angel twice blessed").

Satisfied with my naming skills, I saunter up to the bedside of my patient and cup my hand around Victor's back, savoring the feel of his silken fur. My kitten jolts awake in surprise and immediately starts purring. I pick him up after I hear the whisper of thunder in the distance. Dark clouds douse the faraway sky as they head toward the sun above my roof. It's time to feed Victor, so I carry him into the kitchen while I stroke him with half of a hand.

0o.o0o.o0

Did I mention Angelo Alberti had an older sister? She's my age, and her name is Teresa. She has olive skin similar in color to mine, and brown eyes only slightly lighter in tint. But her hair, unlike my wheat-brown hue, is black as night; she wears it straight and down and it always covers half of her face. This highly cynical girl is fun to be around for her critical and harsh personality, and the fact that everything she says is unintentionally hilarious attracts friends to her. Teresa Alberti is one of my best friends, too, third only to Orlando Mattiazzi and Fabiana Dimaggio, both of whom presently vacationing away, Orlando in Milan and Fabiana in France.

My next-door-neighbor loves to visit me, but not so much in the rain during a blackout. The first thing she says to me in her throaty voice when I open the door is, "Indovino le linee di vestiti sono inutili." (I guess the clothes lines are useless.)

I grin at her sarcastic comment when she triggers my remembering forgetting to harvest the scrubs hanging from the clothes line running between our buildings. "Entrare, per favore." (Come in, please.) She retracts her umbrella and shakes off the water on the vinyl before entering my home, and she is greeted by an always ecstatic Victor as soon as she's out of the rain.

Teresa plucks my kitten off the floor and strokes it. "Lei mi ha detto lei ha voluto mi mostrare qualcosa?" she questions as she shuts the door behind her with a low kick (You told me you wanted to show me something?).

"Ah, sì!" I reply (Ah, yes!). I gesture for her to take off her soggy shoes, which she does with much relief after dropping my pet back down to the floor, and then I add, "Seguirmi." (Follow me.)

I lead Teresa and Victor into my room, and it is here that I show her my new patient.

She sees him right away when she opens the door, and after taking a few awestruck steps forward, her light brown eyes look him over. The irises bounce around like the ball in a pinball machine, and she does this for a few minutes.

"Pozzo…?" I ask (Well…?).

"È carino," she remarks (He's cute). "Significo, la parte tra il suo naso e la sua bocca è la kinda grande, e ha una piccola fronte, ma lei te stesso è afferrato un buono un, lì, Luana." (I mean, the part between his nose and his mouth is kinda big, and he has a tiny forehead, but you've nabbed yourself a good one, there, Luana.)

I frown. "Parlo della ferita!" (I'm talking about the wound!)

"Oh, si. Buono lavoro." (Oh, yeah. Good job.)

Sighing, I respond, "Lei pensa che esso guardi contagiato o niente?" (Do you think it looks infected or anything?)

Teresa turns to look at me with her permanent bored scowl and grunts impatiently, "Perché lei mi chiede sempre queste domande? Non sono fornaio, un dottore." (Why do you always ask me these questions? I'm a baker, not a doctor.)

"Lei mi chiede sempre delle ricette ed imbottisce!" (You always ask me about recipes and stuff!)

"Si, bene, ciò è diverso. Tutti sa delle ricette. Non tutti sa come trattare del che morindo persone." (Yeah, well, that's different. Everyone knows recipes. Not everyone knows how to treat dying people.) She cautiously takes two more steps toward him. "Come è ferito, comunque?" (How did he get injured, anyway?)

"Penso che sia stato sparato," I answer (I think he was shot).

She eyes me with a quizzical sense of concern. "Qui? Celebrazione? Di tutti i luoghi!" (Here? Celebrazione? Of all places!)

I nod. "So, ciò ho pensato, anche." (I know, I thought that, too.)

The baker's daughter and apprentice stands in the center of my room for a short while. She observes my new patient closely.

See, like I have told you before, I've never been one for romance. Fabiana Dimaggio is just like me—people say we're very pretty, but we're both rather awkward and romantically shy. But Teresa Alberti has an uncontrollable libido, and boys have always been all over her. I don't quite get why, but one thing is for sure: if I ever need boy advice, I come to Teresa. Just ask her current boyfriend, Goffredo Moretti, whose parents work at the dock.

"Bene, dovrei prendere probabilmente per andare," she finally says, turning at the heels and heading out my bedroom door (Well, I probably should get going.) I lead her out and follow her to the foyer of the apartment where her soaking-wet shoes lie. Victor comes with us, too.

"Lei vuole sapere che lo chiamo?" I inquire cheerily (Do you want to know what I call him?).

My next-door-neighbor jerks her head upward, taking focus from her shoes to me in a split-second. Her long curtain of hair spreads away from her face so I can see those two gold eyes of hers staring up at me. "Lei l'ha nominato?!" (You named him?!)

I shake my head energetically up and down, quickly losing my pride. "L'Uh, si. L'ho nominato Angelo Benedetto." (Uh, yeah. I named him Angelo Benedetto.)

One of her black eyebrows cock up and her eyelids swish back. She scrambles to stand up, wearing a shoe on only one foot. "Approvare. ..let me capo questo bene. Lei l'ha nominato dopo i miei morti mio piccolo fratello," she moans as a disturbed statement (Okay...let me get this straight. You named him after my dead little brother).

My neck directs my head to the side before I nod again. Now I'm actually ashamed. "Sì." (Yes.)

Teresa shakes her head in disbelief. "Diluca di Luana, lei sicuro sono uno strano un," she groans while frantically sliding her other foot into the remaining shoe (Luana Diluca, you sure are a strange one). She shutters when her toes squish on the drenched sole.

"Non posso aiutarlo! È un bel nome fresco." (I can't help it! It's a pretty cool name.)

This is apparently what she deems as too much. She grabs her umbrella and whips it open once the front door is ajar, and she practically kicks Victor away to get out. "Arrivederci, Luana," she dismisses bluntly as she descends the stairs (Goodbye, Luana).

I watch my neighbor until she reaches the sidewalk below, and then I shut the door and pick up a sulking Victor, cradling the pained feline in my arms. He wraps his socked paw midway around my wrist and meows.

It seems that Angelo Alberti's death, though so long ago, is still a touchy subject for the family.


	3. La Punizione Del Sole

**Carlile, here.**

**I'd like to thank all of the readers who reviewed. Your thoughts are appreciated greatly. Can I be greedy and ask for at least five more? **

**Anyway, this is chapter three of Whirlwing. BTW, I do not own Katekyo Hitman Reborn! or anything related to it. All I own is this computer and my cat. Thank you!**

0o.o0o.o0

**I L C A P I T O L O T R E : L A P U N I Z I O N E D E L S O L E**

**(C H A P T E R T H R E E : B E A T I N G T H E S U N)**

_Dear diary,_

_I find it strange that yesterday morning I was trying my hardest to avoid Angelo, and now I can't stop staring at him. He's an enigma, unconscious on top of my bed with his chest wrapped in bandages I replaced last night and having no identity but my name for him. Where did he come from? Why is he here? Who shot him? Who is he? These pressing questions gnaw at my reasonable side, and it is because of this insatiable curiosity that I sit on the floor before my open door, facing him, watching him as if all the answers will suddenly burst forth from him._

_I barely slept a wink last night while these inquiries polluted my mind. For once, the basket of rolls on the kitchen counter is just as full as the day before. The stagnant darkness that has clouded this home and the series of violent storms repeatedly assaulting Celebrazione don't bother me in the least._

_Tutta l'energia ed il tempo è stato consacrato al mio nuovo paziente. (All of my energy and time has been devoted to my new patient.)_

_Sincerely,  
Luana Diluca_

I immediately flip to the next page of my diary, on which I write down a health and treatment checklist and notes section, creating the list from memory of the clipboards hanging from each of the cots downstairs. Then I carefully go through it. Victor, beside me, lowers his head and raises his rump in a pounce position as he watches my pen scribble to and fro. When he lurches at it, my jolted wrist makes the tip of the pen fly left, carving an inerasable ink slash across the paper. After frowning at my kitten as he pads away, I tear the paper out of the binding, ball it up, and lob it at the young feline. He scats out of the room in surprise with a meow. I rewrite the checklist and notes with a smirk.

When half an hour passes, I close my journal and set it on the floor and pin my writing utensil behind my ear, separating a thin strand of curly hair in front of it. I approach Angelo's bedside. The pale strips of cloth around his abdomen are much more pristine than the first set, which now sits in my trash can as a mass of blood-caked fabric.

With every rise and fall of his chest, the echoing of the infinite questions in my head grow louder, more demanding. And now, I can't help but ask.

"Chi la sono?" I whisper hopelessly, like he can hear me, like he can quench me (Who are you?). Gazing at his peaceful face, I pair my index and middle fingers together and drop them on his bare shoulder.

All the sudden I hear a sleepy, labored groan. I remove my fingers from his skin, and as soon as I do so he stirs very slightly and groans again—this causes me to leap back half a foot. On reflex, I grab at the pen behind my ear and quickly slide it out, holding the point tremulously over Angelo. As he animates more and more I remember why I was trying to avoid him before.

Then, like a fledgling emerging from an eggshell, his eyelids eventually peel away to a squint, revealing the gray-green irises beneath. My patient stares stilly at the ceiling for a few seconds, and when thunder explodes from above, those pale eyes of his shoot open.

I'm taken aback and shield myself with my arms and the tip of my pen when he sits up as straight and quick as an arrow.

"Che l'inferno?!" he booms (What the hell?!). Then, as if a ton of bricks has just slammed into him, he falls back down onto the bed with a thud pinned by his own weakness; he clutches at his stomach in the same manner as when he limped in front of my house three days ago. His eyes slam shut and his teeth grit in pain.

I lower my arms and inky spear. Regardless of the risk, he is in pain. I am a nurse first and a potential victim second.

Before I can even react an excited Victor darts into the room. The young cat jumps onto the bed, gently places his two front paws on Angelo's waist, and licks the back of my patient's fist repeatedly. After about the tenth lick, the gunshot victim opens one eye and I can swear he is smiling.

"G-gattino…" he grunts (K-kitty). My cat slurps his tongue back into his mouth and peers at the silver-haired young man with his cheery marigold eyes. Then he licks the patient's nose. Angelo chuckles, like he has completely forgotten about the pain, and releases his crossed arms from his stomach area to pick up Victor. "Lei è così dolce," he praises (You're so sweet), and as he utters this my cat begins to purr. It's an un-manly thing to say to a kitten, but it's said in a manly way.

Okay, so he likes cats and he speaks Italian. We're on the same page there.

"Lei stanno bene?" I ask in my best fretful nurse voice (Are you alright?).

When I approach the bedside cautiously, Angelo takes his gray-green eyes off of Victor's deep yellow ones and looks at me, at first rather impatiently but his expression quickly turns to something like shock.

"Penso di sì," he replies in an awe-struck voice (I think so). He peers at my kitten again and then back at me. "Questo è il suo gatto?" (Is this your cat?)

I blink a few times before nodding at him. "Sì, si chiama Victor," I answer (Yes, his name is Victor). My pet wriggles his way out of Angelo's grip and drops into his lap to bury his little furry head in the patient's chiseled abdomen.

"Sembra amarla," I laugh (He seems to like you). The air emanating from him doesn't seem threatening to me for a few seconds as I shuffle forward a little more and put my palms on the edge of the mattress. But then I snap back to and my mind screams, "Lei inganna!" (You fool!)

He looks down at Victor but ends up seeing the bandages encircling his upper body. "Che è successo a me?" he inquires (What happened to me?) His expression tightens again, like the sight of the binding pale cloth brings the pain back to him.

My brown eyes focus on the strips of white, too. "Lei era sparato, credo..." (You were shot, I believe…)

There is surprise in his voice as he shrieks, "Ero sparato?!" (I was shot?!) He grabs his chest with one hand and the most vulnerable, innocent, frightened expression of distress washes over his face, like a storm surge wiping away a ship. My cat stands on his two hind legs to place the front ones up against my patient.

I feel horrible now. I could have told him he just had heartburn or something; I can be a pretty convincing liar, even when telling the most ridiculous excuses. There was no need to cause him alarm, to cause him to fear for his life. But his awakening has weakened my psychological defenses.

With his free hand, Angelo forces his fingers into his eyes. He's upset and scared—I can tell. "Oh, Dio," he whimpers (Oh, God.)

I contemplate trying to comfort him while he stays frozen in a sulking position and slowly reach toward his hand, even, until he rapidly takes his thumb from his left eye. I immediately lower my hand.

"Chi la sono?" he asks (Who are you?). The glare in his eyes shakes.

I stare at him blankly for a moment, mesmerized by his eyes full of hurt, before I respond. "Mi chiamo Luana Diluca." (My name is Luana Diluca.)

My mind screams "Lei inganna!" (You fool!) once again. He was found with explosives and a wallet full of counterfeit cards and bills—he could kill me! Why did I have to tell him my real name?

"Luana…" he whispers hoarsely, "Duole…" (Luana…It hurts…)

My eyes narrow and a sympathetic scowl flattens my mouth when I reply, "Sono spiacente." (I'm sorry.) Victor jumps down from the bed and steps over my feet to get out of the room. I muster up all my courage and touch his hand gently. "Tutto ho fatto potrei. Lei dovrà riposarsi appena." (I did everything I could. You'll just have to rest.)

His eyes close and the hand on his head slithers up to his hairline where the fingers file through the silver strands and his wrist rests over the bridge of his nose. I can see his muscles relax, and his other fist loosens and drops to his side. Thunder shakes us to the bone but he remains still. His skin blanches.

"Ehi! Lei è giusto?" (Hey! Are you okay?) I shake him harshly and his now limp body moves violently.

"Sono bello," he murmurs almost inaudibly (I'm fine).

Shutters run up and down my body when I feel that his hand has grown clammy. "Venire su," I say more to myself than him (Come on.)

His breathing is light. The already faint pulse I could feel knocking at his wrist becomes practically unreadable.

"Svegliarsi!" I scream (Wake up!) I shake him again, harder.

"È così freddo…" he sighs quietly (It's so cold…) His tone is mellow and increasingly lifeless as he shivers frailly.

"No! Non è freddo! Venire su, la veglia su! Non partirmi!" (No! It's not cold! Come on, wake up! Don't leave me!) I'm frantic.

Bam!

The cigarettes!

I'm quick when I leave his side and dash madly at the pile of confiscated items close to the foot of the bed. I drop to the floor quickly and my hand is less than an inch away from the nearly empty carton of cigarettes when I stop myself. Smoking is a terrible thing to do to your body. Angelo's going through some serious tobacco withdrawal. Judging by the severity of his symptoms, he must have smoked _a lot_. Perhaps even chain-smoked. Suddenly going three days without a smoke is difficult to deal with—cold-turkey isn't an ideal way to quit, I've been told. But God, it can't be good for him at all! I am torn between making him feel better by giving him one of the cancer sticks and making an important decision about his health by not. He moans painfully; I make the choice. No cigarettes.

I stand and walk slowly back to him, placing my palm on top of his once again. "Appendere là dentro," I plead (Hang in there.)

He nods minutely. "Proverò," he whispers, "Luana." (I'll try, Luana.)

0o.o0o.o0

I come into my bedroom feeling a little better about myself. It's been a short while, an hour, give or take. The weather is cloudy but calm outside right now. Angelo is recovering pretty well from the withdrawal; he has a headache, among a few other things, but mostly his detox is going better than I thought it would.

Leaning over a curled-up Victor, I hand a glass of ice-water to my patient. "Qui," I smile kindly (Here).

He opens one eye and slowly lifts his trembling hand to receive it. "Ringraziarla," he whispers (Thank you.) I let go and he brings the glass to his lips, the unsteady fist holding it causing the ice to clink against the crystal. He swallows the clear liquid that pours into his mouth. When the glass is empty except for the ice, he graciously gives it back to me. "Ringraziarla," he says again (Thank you).

"C'è lei nient'altro ha bisogno di?" I ask caringly (Is there anything else you need?)

He grins a little. "No, lei ha fatto abbastanza." (No, you've done enough).

Grinning back from a combination of pride that I could help and the contagiousness of his smile, I set the glass on my night-stand. Then I lower myself cautiously onto the foot of the bed, extra careful not to disturb the mattress. "Così…questo mi ha irritato. Chi la sono?" I inquire, my voice a little too cheery for the subject at hand. (So…this has been bugging me. Who are you?). For the third time, my conscience chastises me, "Lei inganna!" (You fool!)

His demeanor of grace shatters in a second when he glares at me with a countenance like Victor has his tongue. "Uh…" (Uh…) One of his eyebrows cocks above the other. "Dio, sono stupido. Io… Non so," he responds shakily (God, I'm stupid. I…I don't know.)

My jaw drops. "Che?!" (What?!)

"Non posso ricordare realmente! Spazio vuoto totale!" he chuckles (I really can't remember! Total blank!)

I shake my head in disbelief. No way! He can't remember? …Could he possibly have amnesia?

"Mi dispiace davvero," he whines (I'm really sorry).

Amnesia: probable. I want to laugh out loud and scream into my pillow at the same time. This does not help the anxiety I have built up and am storing up in my tense shoulders. Ironia! (Irony!)

"Lei sa che?" I smile after a moment of soaking in this unbearable revelation (You know what?), "È giusto. Perché ho un nome per chiamarla, comunque." (It's okay. Because I have a name to call you, anyway.) Victor leaps into my lap.

A glint of something like hope sparks in his gray-green eyes. "Realmente?" (Really?)

I nod. Then out of reasons unfathomable by me I place my hand on his ankle and rub back and forth. This action reminds me of a mother comforting a child. "Il benvenuto alla casa di Diluca, Angelo." (Welcome to the Diluca house, Angelo.)

0o.o0o.o0

Quiet. Darkness. Eerie. Stillness. I wade through it all like an egret in a swamp. Stepping lightly across the apartment, I have risen from the uncomfortable couch and come into my room. Victor is relaxed by Angelo's side, who sleeps even more peacefully than before. The door is ajar enough for me to see the unconscious blackness filling my bedroom, but I can't squeeze through it. Ever so carefully I inch it open until I can barely make my way inside. It seems darker than the rest of the home in this room, so my eyes adjust for a minute before I continue on my quest. I creep along the carpet and around my bed, every breath, every creak amplified by a million. I come to the pile at the back of the room of things that I took from Angelo's jacket, the things that hold his unreadable past within them. And then, with extreme caution, I put each item in the trash can, one by one.


	4. Quando Vecchio E Nuovo Incontra

**Carlile here.**

**Sorry for not updating in a while. I've had a very busy week and never quite got around to finishing this chapter until Saturday…and by the way, I think this is one of the funniest chapters, and the longest so far.**

**Thanks for the reading and reviewing! Your cooperation feeds this plot bunny and keeps it alive. Read and enjoy and review if you can or the plot bunny **_**will**_** bite you. And it will hurt.**

**I have been listening to the second opening theme to KHR a lot recently (the whole version). It's an awesome song. See, I'm reading the manga since I'm more of a person that appreciates the original story, so I don't get to hear the anime themes as often as those of you watching the anime. Anyway, I love this song! So much! It's so catchy and has an awesome beat and the guy's voice is amazing. (For you people who have no idea what the song is, it's "Boys and Girls" by LM.C) :D**

**I do not own Katekyo Hitman Reborn! or anything related to it. All I own is this computer and my cat.**

0o.o0o.o0

**I L C A P I T O L O Q U A T T R O : Q U A N D O V E C C H I O E N U O VO I N C O N T R A**

**( C H A P T E R F O U R : W H E N O L D A N D N E W M E E T)**

_Dear diary,_

_Angelo's withdrawal symptoms are almost gone. I'm making the far-fetched theory that the blood loss from the gunshot wound gave him brain damage, which is causing the amnesia. It doesn't seem very logical, but hey, this guy has survived my meatball surgery after being shot at the bottom of his ribcage. If that isn't a miracle, I don't know what is._

_Anyway, I have a queasy feeling in my stomach. It's probably guilt from throwing away all his possessions. This morning he told me it was uncomfortable to sit, and I found a lighter and another stick of dynamite in the back pocket of his pants. I threw those away, too, in the kitchen trash so he wouldn't know. _

_I fed him breakfast and gave him his medicine, and then I had a roll and a granola bar, myself, and practically as soon as I was finished with my food the power came back on! And the storms are gone, too. Later today I'm going to hang out with Teresa (as long as she isn't still mad at me) and Agapito Morino, since it is just killing me not to be outside in the sun. I haven't seen Agapito since school let out on account of his pneumonia so I'm excited. Hopefully Angelo will be okay while I'm gone._

_Well, I best wrap this up. I'm running out of room on the paper and I don't want to go into tomorrow's space._

_Sincerely,  
Luana Diluca_

I glance at my diary entry one last time before closing the book, and my hurried handwriting looks so sloppy, I'm glad nobody reads my diary but me. Victor jumps up on the counter right beside me after shutting the journal and startles me. He meows like he's amused, and I run my palm down his silky body.

The sun rays leaking through the skylight in the center of the kitchen enlightens me, making me feel like I can float around without a care in the world. The sun always gives me this feeling. I beam happily at my cat, who forces himself under my hand to be pet again.

My peace is shattered when the phone rings. It makes me jump when I hear its shrill cry, since I haven't heard the sound in a while. Abandoning Victor on the counter, I dash over to the wall phone and after fumbling with the tangled cord hanging from the receiver hold it up to my ear.

"Ciao?" I answer. I suddenly feel like I need to run and see Angelo Benedetto.

"Ciao, Luana, tesoro! Che indovina? Vengo a casa!" (Hi, Luana, sweetie! Guess what? I'm coming home!)

I cock an eyebrow and my jaw drops an inch. "N-nonno?!" I reply in shock (G-grandpa?!) I swipe the telephone away from the side of my face and stare at the speaker as if I can see my maternal grandfather on the other line.

"Sì, mi è!" he responds (Yes, it's me!) His loud, exuberant, vivacious voice can be heard easily, even though the speaker is not directly against my ear. "La convenzione annoiava, dunque ritorno pochi giorni prima di aspettato. Spero che ciò sta bene con lei, tesoro." (The convention was boring, so I'm coming back a few days earlier than expected. I hope that's all right with you, sweetie.)

I'm stunned. "Uh... Sì! Ciò è grande, Nonno! Quando lei arriva?" (Uh…Yes! That's great, Grandpa! When are you arriving?) Now it's an extremely strong urge to run into my room and make sure Angelo is okay. It's eating at my insides, it's so strong.

"Oh, circa un'ora," he replies casually (Oh, about an hour.)

"Da hora?!" (From now?!)

"Sì!" (Yes!) Crap.

"I suoni grandi, Nonno. Mi dice tutto del suo viaggio quando lei prende qui, giusto?" (Sounds great, Grandpa. Tell me all about your trip when you get here, okay?) I'm lying through my teeth and I'm glad he can't tell just by listening to my voice.

My whole life, I've been able to lie very well, and manipulate people. My grandfather is the only one immune to my powers of persuasion. It's always bugged me. He says my eyes scream when I'm lying, and it must be true but hard to read, because he catches me every time. But when we're on the phone or he can't see those brown eyes of mine, he's as clueless as everyone else.

"Impressionante. La vedrò dopo, Luana. Amarla." (Awesome. I'll see you later, Luana. Love you.) He suddenly seems professional.

"L'amo anche, Nonno," I reply (I love you too, Grandpa); this time, it's obvious I'm acting and I really don't mean what I say. I hook the phone back onto the receiver to hang up.

Correre!! (Run!!)

I almost trip over poor little Victor as I make a mad dash across the one-story living area to get to Angelo. I burst through my bedroom door, taking it from slightly ajar to gaping wide, and lunge one step forward into the room with wide eyes and windblown hair.

"La sono—" (Are you—) I shout frantically. I freeze. He's perfectly content and healthy, sitting up in my bed playing Solitaire on the blanket with an inexplicably obtained deck of cards. His gray-green eyes immediately divert from the game to me, and they glare at me with surprise.

"—bene…?" I conclude the question even though it's already been answered (—okay…?).

"Si, sono la multa giusta," he replies with an expression questioning my sanity (Yeah, I'm just fine.) He slaps a ten of spades onto the spades line after he looks back at his entertainment.

I slide my back foot toward my front foot until I'm standing perfectly erect, and then I stride forward a little bit. I point to the cards. "Angelo, dove lei ha preso quelli?" I ask suspiciously (Angelo, where did you get those?)

"Erano nel suo cassetto di comodino," he responds to my question like it's nothing (They were in your night-stand drawer.) "Sì, ero abbastanza annoiato per scorrere quella cosa per trovare il divertimento. Dalla maniera, questo ponte ha solo le carte di cinquanta-un. Non quale ho scoperto tuttavia manca." (Yes, I was bored enough to look through that thing to find entertainment. By the way, this deck only has fifty-one cards. I still haven't figured out which one's missing.)

I shake my head. Let it go, let it go. There are more important matters at hand.

"Così, lei dice che lei è perfettamente bene. Nessuni problemi. Ho ragione?" I inquire to confirm (So, you're saying you're perfectly fine. No problems. Am I right?)

He nods. And I'm insulted that he has the nerve to tell me, the girl who saved his life, what he says next. "Va via ora. Lei rovina la mia concentrazione." (Now, go away. You're ruining my concentration.)

I walk out of the room grumbling. I may be able to lie like a professional, but my intuition is plain suckish.

0o.o0o.o0

Concern floods my body at this moment, this anticipatory moment. This moment when I wait by the large window in the kitchen overlooking the road, this moment when my grandfather could come in any time, this moment that will further define my love-hate relationship with my mother's father.

As I have told you before, reader, Grandpa is unbearably strict about boys. Therefore, I have devised an Angelo Protection Program. Although I currently dislike him, I'm obligated to keep him out of harm, and to him, an overprotective Dr. Damiano Diluca is the definition of harm.

A shiny, black, old-fashioned car rolls along newly dried brick road like its wheels are covered in double-sided tape. I can recognize my grandpa's beat-up old automobile from anywhere. The front passenger window is missing and there is a large crack in the windshield; a large gash interrupts the black paint along the whole right side of the car; one tire shakes loosely and doesn't roll the same as the others, even after fixing it several times; the convertible roof does not close all the way; and the exhaust causes a little black stream of clouds to follow the vehicle wherever it goes. Surprisingly, this is one of the best cars in town.

When the 60-year-old man parks in front of the clinic, ducks out of the car, and stands at the curb staring up at the wrought-iron staircase leading to the second story apartment. I virtually hover out of the kitchen, through the front door, and down the steps, and I meet him at the bottom. I hug him, and he receives the embrace by putting his hands around my back.

"Ciao, Nonno!" I beam at him (Hi, Grandpa!) I miss those cute wrinkles on his face caused by the years of stress from being the only professional doctor in Celebrazione.

"Tesoro!" he laughs (Sweetie!) He kisses my forehead like he has since I was a little girl, and I pull away from him while taking his luggage. With his large brown leather suitcase in hand, I lead Grandpa up the stairs.

"Ha fatto niente succede mentre ero andato, Luana?" he inquires (Did anything happen while I was gone, Luana?) He skims his hand lightly over the railing as we ascend.

"Non niente, realmente. Era tempestoso ed abbiamo perso il potere, ma tutto è appena grande," I answer unwaveringly (Nothing, really. It was stormy and we lost power, but everything's just great.) "Che è successo alla convenzione—o, ciò che non è successo?" (What happened at the convention—or, what didn't happen?)

"Non ho imparato niente di valore. Tutte le cose c'era il rifiuto totale; era anche più deludere di l'anno scorso," he says, the news bad but his tone upbeat as always (I learned nothing of value. All the stuff there was total junk; it was even more disappointing than last year.) My grandfather often travels to medical conventions and seminars to learn more about treating people and obtain new equipment for our little small-town clinic.

"Posso dire. Questa valigia è la luce di maniera." (I can tell. This suitcase is way light.) I'm grinning but he is none the wiser, for now.

When the two of us come to the landing in front of the door, I wrap my hand around the front doorknob and after turning it push the panel open. The breeze it generates momentarily whips my curly hair back. I step over the threshold and out of the way so the 60-year-old can file in behind me.

Immediately he stands straight up and his nose wiggles like a curious puppy's as he sniffs the air. He shuts the door behind him with his snout in the air.

"Perché odora come il sangue qui dentro?" (Why does it smell of blood in here?) His question is blunt and stern.

I set down the luggage. "Oh, ho avuto appena un'emorragia nasale, ciò è tutto. Ma sono buono ora," I reply in my best voice for making excuses (Oh, I just had a nosebleed, that's all. But I'm good now.)

Dr. Damiano Diluca peers down at me through his thick glasses and cocks an eyebrow. "Realmente?" he asks, suspicion evident in his voice (Really?)

I nod. "Realmente." (Really.)

Then he smiles. It's that smile I've always dreaded, the one that shows the whole inside of his mouth. It is a smug and rather unsettling grin. I always stare at his two front teeth—one of them is made from gold, and the other is chipped so badly that it barely shows. This is the smile that means he's on to me.

"Bene, appena essere sicuro, controllerò la sua stanza." (Well, just to be sure, I'll check your room.)

Idiota!—(Idiot!) I was such a fool to think I could fool my grandfather.

"Nonno, non ci è bisogno," I chuckle nervously, keeping my demeanor calm although on the inside I am freaking out (Grandpa, there is no need.)

He begins to shuffle down the foyer and through the kitchen, passing Victor along the way. "Assicurando appena..." he calls, his lively tone echoing off the stucco walls and tile floor (Just making sure…)

I jog to catch up to him and keep up with his pace beside him. "Approvazione!" I shout (Okay!) "Ammetto c'è qualcosa nella mia stanza! Un cucciolo!" (I admit there is something in my room! A puppy!)

The 60-year-old stops in his tracks. "Un cucciolo?" he asks (A puppy?), his suspicion growing astronomically. He's staring at me with his hard stare, the kind you can't avoid, as he raises an eyebrow.

I nod. "Sì." (Yes.) I'm quite obviously over-acting.

"Poi perché odora come il sangue?" (Then why does it smell like blood?)

"Io, l'uh, ho dovuto tagliare suo ha pisciato!" (I, uh, had to cut off his paw!)

He seems disturbed now. "Perché su Dio terra verde lei taglierebbe il suo ha pisciato?" (Why on God's green earth would you cut off his paw?)

"Ha avuto un'infezione realmente cattiva!" (He had a really bad infection!)

I can tell that Dr. Damiano Diluca is annoyed. He loves a challenge, proving me wrong when I lie. I have been lying and it is quite clear to him now, but I'm not really trying as hard as usual to cover it up. It's just too ridiculous of a thought.

"Ciò l'è," he grunts, "Controllo la sua stanza!" (That's it, I'm checking your room!) He pushes me out of his way in his gentle manner of movement and proceeds walking to the back end of the second story of our building.

I chase after him but he doesn't stop. I call out "No! No!" repeatedly (No! No!) but he says not a word. I get in front of him but he just pushes me aside. The revelation of my secret is imminent, and I can't take the pressure.

He opens the door to my room after much protesting by me, and as soon as he sees inside he shouts, "Ha! L'ho saputo! È ragazzo!" (Ha! I knew it! It's a boy!) He leaps into the room, followed immediately by me. This startles an innocent Angelo Benedetto, causing him to drop all the playing cards in his hands and gaze at my grandfather with fear. The same expression that wrought his gray-green eyes when he was withdrawing from the tobacco hits him now.

Racing up to my patient like a feral dog after a steak, Grandpa smacks his hands onto the edge of the mattress and Angelo winces away from him as far as he can without falling off the bed. "Che ha fatto lei a mia nipote?! Perché lei è qui?! Chi la sono?!" he shrieks (What have you done to my granddaughter?! Why are you here?! Who are you?!)

Angelo's eyebrow cocks and his teeth crunch down on his bottom lip.

I pull on the back of my grandfather's shirt collar and then on his arms to drag him off the edge of the bed. Because my teenage girl strength is about equal to his old man strength, I can pull him away easily.

He resists me to the best of his ability. "Mollare di me, Luana! La metteremo a terra!" he cries (Let go of me, Luana! I'll ground you!)

"No! Non dolere Angelo!" I yell. My eyes clench shut, somehow giving me the ability to hold him back with ease.

"Angelo?! Così lei lo sa!" (Angelo?! So you do know him!)

"È che non lei pensa!" (It's not what you think!)

"Signore Diluca." (Mr. Diluca.)

It's my patient's voice that rings out among us. The tone is commanding but not too loud, and it certainly calls attention to him as it stops the bickering between me and my maternal grandfather.

"Sua nipote è molto gentile e responsabile. Devo la mia vita a lei. Non ho fatto niente a lei, e non intendo a. Starò appena nella sua cura finché sono bene e poi il congedo. Per favore di capire che significo bene. Dice la verità." (Your granddaughter is very kind and responsible. I owe my life to her. I haven't done anything to her, and I don't intend to. I am just going to stay in her care until I am well and then leave. Please understand that I mean well. She is telling the truth.) I notice that he's sitting up and calm. His gray-green eyes look directly into Damiano's brown ones.

My muscles loosen and I feel flattered, relieved. Happy that Angelo feels this way about me, like I mean so much to him.

For a few seconds I actually think my grandfather has been touched as his permanent happy expression is suddenly brightened. But it fades quickly to seriousness.

"Esso's…Diluca di dottore," he corrects (It's…_Doctor_ Diluca.)

0o.o0o.o0

"Si, la destra!" I laugh (Yeah, right!) It is nine o'clock at night at the moment. After Angelo and I convinced Grandpa that everything is okay, he has gone about the house unpacking and cleaning. He also dealt with a few casual checkups downstairs. Now he's sleeping in his bedroom. As for me, I did get to hang out with Teresa and Agapito for a few hours. At this time I sit on my bed playing Gin Rummy with Angelo, using the cards he found in my night-stand. Victor sits in his lap and purrs loudly even when he is not being pet. "Tutto ho avuto sotto controllo." (I had everything under control.)

The conversation is about the ordeal earlier between me, Angelo, and Damiano.

"Nessuna maniera," he laughs (No way.) He draws a six of clubs.

"Ma ho avuto un progetto impressionante!" I protest facetiously (But I had an awesome plan!)

"No, lei è la merda complete," my patient replies (No, you're complete shit.)

I frown. "Come lei sa?" I say in a bratty voice (How do you know?) Our game has paused and I elevate myself to the top of the folded-up quilt at the base of the bed.

He smiles. It is identical to my grandfather's, except Angelo's teeth are not as messed-up. "I suoi occhi gridano quando lei mente," he states (Your eyes scream when you lie.)

That is what my grandfather says, what the man that means the most to my young life says. It is something special for my someone special. The fact that Angelo can see this obscure thing that nobody else can is appalling to me…and for some reason it makes me feel…different than ever before.

He stares at my shocked face for a minute before looking back down at the drawing pile. He takes off the top card, thus resuming our game.

"Oh, dalla maniera," he smiles as he looks at the face of the card (Oh, by the way), "Ho scoperto la carta mancante. Questo era." (I figured out the missing card. It was this one.) He flips it over to show me by twisting his fingers a little. "Vede? È il due di cuori.*" (See? It's the two of hearts.*)

0o.o0o.o0

**Author's Note:**

*** The two of hearts means romance is in the air. Its meaning is easy to tell from its title.**


	5. L'Osservazione Della Tempesta

**Hello again. It's Carlile.**

**I know this is off the topic of Katekyo Hitman Reborn! and this fic, but if you have at least heard of Ouran High School Host Club and you looooooooove (or hate) Tamaki then I have a video for you. Link: **.com/watch?v=p68z4gWLjvU** I'm not usually one for yoai and I think TamaHaru is a wicked awesome couple but when I saw this video I thought it was just hilarious and very fitting. Don't hate me.**

**I had an idea for another KHR fic (of course it's still in the works and I won't start it until I've at least finished this one). KHR Generation Two! All the couples and characters have at least one kid and the whole thing is basically the random adventures of all twenty kids while their parents are away…the story is from the point of view of their nanny XD The way my plan for the story is developing so far the nanny will fall in love with Dante. Dante is the son of Reborn and Bianchi. He is amazing! He's the oldest at 18 and the leader of the kids although he just sits back in the shadows and quietly watches them for the most part. And he's really hot in my mental image—he has his father's sideburns, too!**

**The plot bunny would like to be fed some more reviews please. It's not me, it's the plot bunny. Well, it kinda is me XD I don't mean to be demanding, I just like reviews, just like all the other writers on this site.**

**Oh, and if you were wondering about Celebrazione, it is a small town that gets most of its business from fishing and it is of my own creation, although it is based off of two places and located by a real place in Italy. The town is a compilation of Waffle Island on ****Harvest Moon: Tree of Tranquility**** (which, BTW, I have a fic about :D) and a tiny tourism town in Florida called Celebration. Celebrazione is Italian for Celebration. And this place is located on the coast of Lake Como, a beautiful lake in northern Italy.**

**Anyway, I'll shut up and get to the story, because I know that's what you people really want. I do not own Katekyo Hitman Reborn! or anything related to it (and I also don't own Ouran High School Host Club or Legally Blonde the Musical). All I own is this computer and my cat.**

0o.o0o.o0

**I L . C A P I T O L O . C I N Q U E : . L ' O S S E R V A Z I O N E . D E L L A . T E M P E S T A**

**(C H A P T E R . F I V E : . W A T C H I N G . T H E . S T O R M)**

_Dear diary,_

_Last night as I slept on the couch I had a dream. I was in a place I didn't recognize. It looked something like a garden, and all around me were divine potted plants and tall, majestic trees and lattice fences dotted with flowers and teeming with ivy and rose bushes bursting with life. I was alone. The sky above me, covered in black clouds, wrapped fog around me that almost made the air sparkle; I could still see the sun overhead, a bright white orb contrasting greatly against the heavens. The ground at my feet was brick and almost completely blanketed with orange, red, brown, and yellow leaves. And I wore a dress that wrapped around me in a similar manner to a toga and it was a dull red color. _

_All is peaceful for a short while as I stand in the serene, beautiful garden enshrouded in mist. I was so content that I closed my eyes. That was the nice part of the dream._

_When I opened my eyes, I saw a girl standing a few yards away from me. She had an eyepatch and short purple hair, and she wore a lacey white dress. _

_I cocked an eyebrow when I saw her in the mist. I called out to her once, twice, three times. She didn't respond until the fourth time, then she slowly turned her head to look at me. Her exposed blue eye looked sad and confused._

"_Ciao," I said soothingly (Hi), "Lei è perso o qualcosa?" (Are you lost or something?)_

_She didn't respond but looked at me with an expression similar to fear. She disappeared when I blinked and was replaced by a boy with one blue eye and one red eye that sported a suit. He vanished as immediately as he appeared._

_Thoroughly perplexed, I glanced around in the thickening fog. I didn't see a thing until a flash illuminated my left. I quickly turned to find the source, and there was another boy, one with a cow-print suit and horns on his head. He didn't notice me and created another shot of light from his horns before disappearing with the brilliant light._

_I was scared at this time. I didn't know where I was or who any of these mysterious people were, and I wanted to get out, but I couldn't move. It was like some godly force was cementing my feet to the brick below, and I couldn't do anything about it._

_After swaying a little I saw two young men, both in suits similar in style. One had short silver hair and the other had black hair that was a bit spiky. The spiky-haired one had a sword while the other boy lacked a weapon. They were positioned for action at the opposite ends of my peripheral vision, and right when I spotted them they charged at each other. They jumped up when they met and both of them disappeared just one microsecond before their collision. _

"_Che continua?" I shouted. "Chi sono tutto lei persone?" (What's going on? Who are all you people?!)_

_I heard chirping from behind me at the uttering of this question, and I quickly turned around to see yet another suited boy, seeming to be about my age just like all the other apparitions, staring up at the black sky with his arms stretched out. A small yellow bird fell into his hands a few seconds later. He smirked rather evilly at the creature, set it on top of his head, and was swept up completely into the fog like a dust cloud._

_The next noise was much more disturbing: a scream. When I heard it, I rotated myself rapidly to face forward, and the sight awaiting me officially made this dream a nightmare. It was another young man in a suit, with large, spiky brown hair, and he was on fire, screaming in agony. I could see his skin sweating and melting away, which made me shutter uncontrollably, and he gazed at me with a pleading countenance as he screeched in anguish - like I needed to save him. I felt awful as I watched him suffer, knowing I couldn't move, couldn't help him. The noxious smoke floating off of him contributed to the fog and made it thicker, darker. When he became too weak to fight the flames anymore, he collapsed to the brick ground and vanished._

_When he left, I immediately fell backward, landing on my tailbone. I stared frightened and upset at the spot the boy met his demise, curling my legs up to my chest and feeling my tears roll down my cheeks, off my chin, and dissolve into the rusty red cloth draped over my knees. I rocked back and forth as I blanched and wondered whether this was some sort of sick dream or if I was in hell._

_My vision was so blurred after the seemingly endless time of bawling that I could barely make out a pale hand emerging from the fog before me. I stared at the open palm obscuring my mourning for the longest time, now skeptically contemplating whether or not to accept its offer and grab it. Finally, I submitted, and I put my own hand on it. The fingers wrapped around my knuckles as the person who possessed this extremity gently pulled me to a standing position. After steadying me, I found out the identity of the aid. _

_He grabbed me and embraced me, like he was worried for me. I couldn't see his face for he hugged me too quickly, but as I was comforted by his arms enveloping me warmly I saw out of the corner of my eye the long silver hair that hung from his head and grazed the top of his suit collar._

"_A-Angelo?" I asked quietly, stuttering and sniffling. (A-Angelo?)_

_The young man released no noises nor did he release me but instead held me tighter, almost as if he was protecting me from something. I could feel the breath emanating from his muzzle as he buried his face into my shoulder. We were embracing long enough for me to cease the serious crying, and I felt so much better in his arms that I closed my eyes again like he made me completely forget this whole disturbing experience. I slid my hands around his abdominals and connected them by netting my fingers when they found the center of his back. I then set my own head on his shoulder._

"_Correre," he whispered (Run), so quietly and calmly that I didn't really listen, much to my fault, for almost immediately after dealing me this warning he evaporated into a large, formless plume of smoke._

_I leaned forward for a second after he left me since I didn't have him to balance on anymore. I stood shakily for a moment as I tried to figure out what happened, but my thoughts were abruptly interrupted by the sound of a cocking gun._

_Looking down at my feet I could scarcely see through the virtually solid fog, but I found in front of me the barrel of a gun held by a rather short figure with a black fedora._

"_Morire." (Die.) The command from the high-pitched shape made me freeze._

_I woke up panting and clinging to my sweat-soaked pillow._

_Darn, I used several days of space. Oh well. I can add pages to the end later, or skip a few days. But I just had to write my dream down before I forgot._

_Sincerely,  
Luana Diluca_

Feeling irresponsible because of my inability to resist writing in my diary prone on the kitchen counter, I slam my pen down on the granite, scratch Victor behind the ear for a few seconds, and grip the edges of the metal tray on the other side of the counter. On top of the tray is bland food - buttered rolls courtesy of the Alberti family next door and a glass of ice water – all accompanied by a cocktail of pills. Yes, it's for Angelo Benedetto.

I pass by my grandfather as I scamper my way out of the kitchen, Victor in my shadow. "Ciao, Nonno," I say cheerily (Hey, Grandpa.)

I know that as soon as he is out of my sight he glares at the back of my head. "Lei vede Angelo? Ricordare nessuni mezzi No." (You're seeing Angelo? Remember no means no.) This is more of a command than a question or advice.

I chuckle casually, "Si, la destra, come che succederà." (Yeah, right, like that's going to happen.)

The storms have resumed outside, like yesterday's sun was a teaser just to get the hopes of Celebrazione's citizens up. Fortunately, the electricity is still running, so I have some light.

Victor's carefree padding causes me to trip when his paws whack my heels. I don't fall, but I almost lose the breakfast on the tray, and I spend the rest of the journey to my bedroom scolding my cat.

Precariously holding the tray in one hand, I grasp the doorknob allowing access to my bedroom and turn it open. My adoptive kitten darts into the room before I can take a single step; this causes me to almost lose the food _again_.

"Victor!" I chastise (Victor!) I stomp over the threshold and enter my green-wallpapered room, and right away I notice something strange.

Angelo non è a letto. (Angelo is not in bed.)

I panic for a brief time, widening my brown eyes and nearly dropping the tray a third time before I see that he is still in the room.

He's at the back, shirtless but it doesn't really matter since he's encircled by bandages, with his silver hair in a mess. His wrist holds the curtain out of his sight as he stares out the pane at the crying gray sky. There is a feel of majesty and mystery to him. Victor the former stray cat leaps nimbly up onto the sill where Angelo leans and the young feline seats himself comfortably and gazes out at the horizon as well.

The gruesome, horrifying, fear-inducing images cursed upon me last night flash through my mind at light speed, and I remember that long time that my patient held me and comforted me and kept me safe. I suddenly feel like the soupy mist from the dream is seeping into the room from the window. But once I take a step forward I realize this isn't the nightmare I had last night. At this thought the smoke clears.

I slide my feet quietly along the carpet, careful not to disturb his peace as he may not appreciate me for that, and after setting the tray down gingerly at the foot of the bed I gradually make my way to the back of the room. When I come within a few feet from them I stop and stand still, staring not at the window like they are but at the back of my patient's head.

C'è qualcosa di lui che sembra oggi diverso. (There's something about him that seems different today.)

Angelo cautiously reaches over with his other hand to rub Victor's neck, as if to say he knows I'm behind him watching. The cat kneads at the wooden sill in pleasure with his special socked paw.

I skirt my foot in front of me only a little, then the other meets up with it. There is a dandelion-yellow pair of eyes belonging to Victor, a gray-green pair of eyes owned by Angelo, and a chocolate-brown pair of eyes sported by me all reflected in the soggy glass.

"Lei non dovrebbe stare in piedi," I say a little on the quiet side, breaking the tranquility of the moment (You shouldn't be standing.)

He does not respond in sound, but I can see via the reflection that his expression droops in disappointment. His eyes, however, keep the same focused emotion.

There is not very much I can do now. I can't bring myself to force him to sit back down, even though I could probably overpower him since he's still weak from being shot less than a week ago. Maybe it's because the storm is mesmerizing me. Maybe it's because _he's_ mesmerizing me.

"Voglio andare fuori," he says softly, humbly, hypnotically (I want to go outside) after a short while.

I look at the raging weather beyond the window, the cat beside my patient that other than his clenching paw sits still as a statue, and the condensation dripping down the side of the ice water glass on the tray on the bed.

"Lei è matto?" I reply (Are you crazy?) "Piove a catinelle fuori da lì. Lei si ammalerà." (It's raining cats and dogs out there. You'll get sick.) My tone is calmed by the illusion of chilled, humid air surrounding me.

Another moment of silence between the two of us, albeit the rain is so hard and the cat's purr is so strong that the two clamors fill the void.

"Non so," he responds in a smooth manner (I don't know.) He looks down while closing his eyes and lifting his hand away from the cat. "Sento appena come devo andare fuori." (I just feel like I need to go outside.) Opening his sluggish eyes again he removes his stop on the curtain, letting the veil fall back over the pane, and slowly drags himself back to the bed to take his medicine.

While Victor my mostly brown cat remains on the windowsill watching the storm get stronger and stronger, I pivot to see Angelo. His face is wrought with disappointment and longing, and a pang of guilt and something similar to sympathy stabs at my brain as I observe him pop the pills into his mouth and swallow them down with the water. He doesn't even look at the rolls, and he sets the glass down permanently unfinished.

Emitting a nasal sigh, I feel my shoulders slump and my logic and sense of reasoning fall apart like old shoes. There is something different about him today, at least to me. Perhaps it's the dream making me think of him in an unusual way?

"Va bene," I finally give in (All right), "La porterò fuori. Ma solo per cinque minuti." (I'll take you outside. But only for five minutes.) I take a few steps toward the closet to get dressed so I don't look horrible while I'm outside, but really I'm trying to avoid looking at him because the sight of him makes me do and feel things that are strange to me. "Lei bambino grande," I mutter as silently as possible (You big baby).

0o.o0o.o0

Don't ask me how I got Angelo past Grandpa, but now we are outside the clinic at the base of the stairs. I'm carrying a large black gold umbrella; it's keeping both of us dry very nicely but I feel uncomfortable anyway. Angelo is still weak although I figure he is ready to start walking and standing again, at least periodically, so I trusted him to keep up with me although a few times I had to keep him from faltering.

I turn to him and am about to ask him why he is so fascinated with the weather until I see that he's concentrating on the falling water all around the umbrella. Unable to help staring at him and contemplating how strange he is today, I don't notice his hand emerging out from under the black shield until it's too late and his entire hand is soaking wet.

Tapping his shoulder, I scold him in a gentle way. "Prendere la sua mano di nuovo qui dentro." (Get your hand back in here.)

He immediately whips his head around to peer at me pleadingly. It's the same expression Victor develops when I'm holding a treat in front of his nose, or what I assume a mouse's face would look like while in the clutches of a bird of prey. His hand, quivering, refuses to withdraw.

Okay, now he's just manipulating me. That I know. But just like what happened in my room naught but a few minutes ago, I have the inability to refuse him.

Not knowing how to respond without giving him full, clear consent on the subject, I reply, "Qualunque cosa," in the most disagreeable voice I can muster (Whatever.)

The corners of Angelo's lips remain flat just like the rest of his mouth, but his gray-green eyes smile at me. He lowers his hand to his side and gracefully steps out from underneath the black umbrella. He is immediately pelted with rain. He doesn't watch where he walks because his head is facing the clouds, but it doesn't matter because he's not going very fast or toward anywhere he could trip.

My patient stops in his indefinite tracks. His vision still directed at the heavens - the bandages around his abdomen quickly transform from a clean and dry white to a wet, translucent state; the silver hair framing his face mats onto the sides and back of his head and melts into a deep black; the pants that he has worn for the past five days (because Grandpa is three pants-sizes bigger than him and I don't know what to shop for) clings to his skin and shines with the wetness from the rain; his black shoes are stained light brown at the soles from the mud. He looks so…angelic. Gorgeous. Glowing. His elbows gradually bend at his sides and his palms float upward, collecting shallow puddles of rain in his hands. An incredible aura pulsates from him.

Attempting to hold my umbrella steady, I lift my other hand to check the gold wristwatch my friend Fabiana Dimaggio gave me for my thirteenth birthday. It has been six minutes already.

"Giusto, lei ha preso bagnato. Ritorniamo ora dentro," I declare, feeling guilty that I must end his pleasure (Okay, you've gotten wet. Now let's go back inside.)

Being difficult once again, he doesn't even flinch. He just stands there like a sticky, drenched statue.

My whole body sags in defeat. Is he ever stubborn. I stand in the mud, sheltered by the umbrella, going back and forth between watching him frozen in the violent rain and peering at my watch every minute on the minute until we've been outside in the storm for a good quarter-hour.

I open my mouth to protest his tenacity but none of the words come out. Even when I can't look into those gray-green eyes of his he still controls me, body and mind. First in the dream he calmed me down then told me to run, and then back in my room he convinced me practically without words to let him outside, and now he's influencing me to do a third insane thing.

While gazing at him I unconsciously close my umbrella. My feet propel my uncontrollable body toward him, and before I know it I'm standing beside him, completely still, staring up at the same cloud in the sky. My hair is cemented to my neck and my dress bonds to my olive skin.

Angelo closes his eyes after a while. "Questo sente così buono," he whispers (This feels so good.)

I cock my head. "Perché farebbe questo, di tutte le cose, sente buono?" I inquire curiously (Why would this, of all things, feel good?)

"Non so," he replies. (I don't know.)

I look down at his hands. The palms are overflowing with collected water, sending tiny streams cascading between his open fingers, down his forearms, and running off onto the muddy ground from his elbows.

"Dovremmo prendere probabilmente dentro ora," I suggest (We should probably get inside now.)

He smiles a little, his eyes ajar, as he counters, "Lei va avanti. Raggiungerò con lei." (You go ahead. I'll catch up with you.)

For a few minutes more I stare at him. Although to any passerby he's just innocently looking up at the rainy sky, he is compelling me to leave him to go back into the house. I skeptically pluck the umbrella off the soggy ground and walk backwards across the lawn to the stairs so I can see him. He stands completely still the entire time. I remain cautious as I back up the stairs, watching him intently, and when I reach the top step and am about to go back inside he falls to the ground.

He wakes up a few hours later and tells me it was worth it.


	6. Aperto

**Hello, my awesome readers! This is Carlile reporting for duty.**

**About the link in the last chapter, it was for YouTube. Heh. My bad.**

**Thank you to everyone who reviewed. Your responses to my story keep me rolling with the idea. I wish you could all see the big cheesy grin I get on my face whenever I receive a review (:**

**BTW, sorry for the long wait. This chapter was rather hard for me to write on account of having relatives here from out-of-state for Thanksgiving taking up my time and attention.**

**Yay! I'm on book eight of the actual series! Whew, I've been reading in all my spare time, which if you think about it isn't much between school, homework, and writing. But yay! **

**I do not own Katekyo Hitman Reborn! or 59-sama or anything related to either of them. All I own is this computer and my cat. **

0o.o0o.o0

**I L . C A P I T O L O . S E I : . A P E R T O**

**(C H A P T E R . S I X : . U N L O C K E D)**

_Dear diary,_

_I apologize for the shaky handwriting, but FABIANA IS COMING BACK!!!! TODAY!!!!!!!!!!_

_I know she's only been in France to see her dad and stepmom and grandparents for a few weeks but she's coming back early for some reason I can't remember because I'm so psyched that SHE'S COMING BACK!!_

_You can tell we're best friends because we miss each other so much. One of these summers, I would love to accompany her on her annual summer trip to France. I think it would be a little awkward, though, since I'm as fond of her father and stepmother as her own mother is (ha ha ha.) I'm especially excited for her to meet Angelo. I want to know what she thinks of him, like if she'll remark right away how cute he is, like Teresa did, although she probably won't because she's even more clueless about boys than I am. _

_Gotta go!_

_Sincerely,  
Luana Diluca_

After setting down my pen and closing my journal, I jump up and down around the kitchen like a directionally challenged rabbit. I almost step on Victor when he comes in, but he catches on right away and starts prancing around, too. Then I pick him up off the ground and, holding his body in one arm and his socked paw with the other hand, I dance the tango with him. He doesn't seem to be enjoying it all that much, as he displays with his twitching whiskers and lowered ears, but I don't care. I'm happy.

My grandfather, Dr. Damiano Diluca, standing innocently at the sink washing the dishes, watches me with a cocked eyebrow. It's gray, peppered with brown here and there, like his hair. "Luana," he laughs, "Provare di controllarsi." (Luana, try to control yourself.) A loud splash from the sink signals his dropping of a plate into the pool of soapy water.

Ceasing my giddy hopping and loosening my grip on my kitten, my stirring brown eyes meet with his. "Ma è Fabiana!" I whine (But it's Fabiana!) Victor retracts his paw out of my fist and after poising himself leaps back down onto the floor. He walks out of the kitchen in a huff in the direction of my room.

Back in third grade, second grade, first grade—basically my entire life as a zero-to-nine-year-old—I hated Fabiana Dimaggio more than anyone else. I was always the quiet girl in the class, and she was the noisy one that disrupted the teacher and chatted loudly with friends, which annoyed me because at that age I was a very devoted and diligent student. Another reason I disliked her back then was because she had her mother and stepfather and stepbrother to hang out with, and I was an orphan living with a workaholic grandfather who never played with me, so there was the jealousy factor. But the thing I despised about the half-French-half-Italian girl the most was this: since her last name was Dimaggio and mine was Diluca, she stood right behind me whenever we lined up single-file by alphabetical order, which was always. And she would play with my hair. She would twirl it around, braid it, comb through it with her fingers, and do just about everything else possible with only the hands. When I was young I was very protective and self-conscious of my hair, and I still am, so the thoughts and feelings associated with her messing with my hair without my consent made me very angry. Being the shy kid I was, though, I never stood up for myself, which meant she continued to play with my hair in line every single day.

The reason we finally became friends was that in fourth grade our teacher assigned us to be lab partners for a science project. After working together for a week, we found out that we had a lot in common. The two of us have been practically joined at the hip since then, and when this summer is over we'll be entering the tenth grade.

And now that she has called me and told me she'll be stopping at my home before coming to her own today, you can only imagine my anticipation.

Once I'm done celebrating and thoroughly freaking out Grandpa, I stare out the front window at the charcoal gray sky and brick road flooded with water to calm myself. I can clearly feel my pounding heart slow down as the turbulent weather works its magic on me. The rainy Italian summers used to have no affect on me, but ever since yesterday's incident with Angelo and his obsession with the storm, the climate has become a tool to pacify and hypnotize me.

"Che la sono, bipolare?" my grandfather snorts in his best attempt yet to sound like a teenager (What are you, bipolar?)

My mouth has discreetly fallen ajar over the past few minutes of cooling down, giving me a stupid expression when I turn around to face the 60-year-old and take a few slow steps toward him. I don't respond since he won't notice because he's too focused on cleaning the breakfast dishes without breaking any like last time.

When my mind has officially taken in all of my surroundings—the storm outside not unlike the ones that have been besieging the area for what seems like forever, my grandfather's clumsy dishwashing, my cat wandering off to God knows what room in the house (although it's probably mine), the electricity that has been teasing us for the past two hours by flickering on and off, Fabiana's return from her father and stepmother's home in France, and Angelo who is permanently stuck in my head—I saunter out of the kitchen and across the second story of our building to my room at the back.

Angelo is lying on top of my bed as usual, and as predicted from his behavior when I woke him up for breakfast this morning, he's asleep again. I love the way he looks so much younger than he probably actually is when he is sleeping. His face is so blissful when his gray-green eyes are shut with his muscles drooping weakly onto the bed and his long silver hair unkempt and in tangles on the pillow. Victor is cuddled up between my patient's bandaged abdomen and his arm flopped out in front of him.

I still don't get why he has such an effect on me. Maybe it is because he's the first patient I've ever handled all by myself? Maybe it is because of his intriguing and mysterious past? Maybe it is because his personality and the way we get along calls for an interesting doctor-patient relationship? Maybe it is all of these things? Or something completely different? He raises so many questions, so much curiosity within me.

0o.o0o.o0

The sight on the other side of the front door is one that has brought me joy for the past five years of my life.

"Fabiana!" I shriek, my smile wider than my own face (Fabiana!). My best friend beams back at me and I duck underneath her umbrella to lunge at her and hug her. She squeezes me with her free arm.

I invite her inside right away. She closes the red plaid umbrella, steps over the threshold and closes the door behind her. We hug again.

Fabiana's skin is rather fair, and her eyes are like dark chocolate pools behind a thick, rather geeky looking pair of eyeglasses. Her hair is naturally light brown but it looks as if she had it striped with platinum blond in France, and got it cut, too, as before she left her hair was midway down her back and thick bangs covered her forehead and now it's cut extremely short and she has no bangs. For as long as I can remember this girl has been on the tall side, especially now that I see she is at least half a foot taller than I am, and with this height she can use her long legs for running on the track team; she is lean, like most runners. And ever since seventh grade she's had the annoying habit of popping her purple polka-dot retainer in and out of her mouth _constantly_. I don't say anything about it because it seems to make her happy.

"Così, come la Francia era?" I ask in a scandalous tone (So, how was France?)

"Una parola: annoiando!" she replies (One word: boring!) "I miei nonni vanno matto, giuro a Dio, ed il mio babbo non lo prende appena. A tutto. E la mia matrigna è tuttavia maligna come sempre. Ha fatto per interessare niente succede qui mentre ero andato?" (My grandparents are going crazy, I swear to God, and my dad just does not get it. At all. And my stepmother is still as bitchy as always. Did anything interesting happen here while I was gone?) She rolls her eyes like she isn't expecting a good answer to her question.

"Effettivamente…" I grin, blushing and shrugging (Actually…)

"Effettivamente…?!" she inquires excitedly (Actually…?!)

When I see her enthused expression I wonder why I'm blushing, and I think for a minute about Angelo Benedetto. If I went parading him around town, rumors would spread. I don't want to end up like that former classmate of mine, Rosanna Riccardi, who was so embarrassed by a boy last year she had to move out of the Lake Como area. Not that Angelo seems like the type who would do that sort of thing to me.

I literally shake my head to clear the horrible thought from my mind. Fabiana looks at me more quizzically than excitedly until I continue the thought. "Giusto…seguire me, e non dice nessuno, buono?" (Just…follow me, and don't tell anyone, okay?)

She nods, her short hair bouncing with the movements of her head. "Si, si, si!" (Yeah, yeah, yeah!)

With that I proceed to lead her to the back of the house. My steps are calm and in rhythm with Victor, who joins our trek after we pass the kitchen. I can hear my best friend click her retainer every few steps—step, step, step, click, step, step, click, step, step, click, step, step, step, step, click.

0o.o0o.o0

"Il suo amico, lì, era abbastanza uno spaz," my patient growls (Your friend, there, was quite a spaz.) He's scratching roughly at my cat's neck, ruffling his fur and generating explosions of purrs.

Frowning, I reply, "Ehi, non insolentire il mio amico." (Hey, don't disrespect my friend.)

It's dinner time. The power is out completely, the storm outside is violent, my bedroom is dark. Angelo didn't seem to like Fabiana Dimaggio all too much, but my friend was fine with him. She expressed her usual suavity—or, lack of it—around him, as she is completely clumsy and clueless off the track.

Yesterday my patient did not eat very much on account of his being unconscious until mid-afternoon, so I figured he would be hungry all day today, but strangely he does not have nearly as much of an appetite as before. I must coach him at every bite, every sip. It's tedious and the expression on his face is almost disgusted as he looks at the food before him. He seems more occupied with Victor than anything else.

When I look into his gray-green eyes lately, they're so much harder to read. I can't tell what he is really feeling when I stare at those windows into his soul. They have an angry essence to them, but also helplessness, endurance, and…gratefulness? I'm not sure. But he keeps looking at the trash can, like he knows what I did.

I instruct him to have some more bread, but he clutches Victor tightly to his chest in defiance. My kitten mews objectively.

Disappointed, I take the tray off the bed. I set one foot on the floor, gradually slide the other down next to it, and erect my back. "Buonanotte, Angelo," I whimper in a broken way (Goodnight, Angelo.) My spirit, dampened by the rain outside and the sudden personality change of my patient, stays behind as my feet drag my empty shell of a body across the carpet and toward the door. A sensation never felt before sweeps over me. It's something like numbness, but instead of all feelings being erased to nothing it seems like my whole being has been swept away by a tidal wave of negative energy, like I am being burned from the inside.

My flooded heart flutters when I feel a gentle tug on a lock of my hair.

I pivot all the way around to find Angelo standing behind me, staring at my face with an innocent countenance that for the first time in approximately 48 hours matches his eyes. This surprises me, even when I see him hold his hand up to me. A dust bunny rests on the tip of his fingers. And then he lowers his arm, dropping the tiny gray fluff to the floor.

"C'era qualcosa nei suoi capelli," he tells me ingenuously (There was something in your hair.)

Nobody. Ever. Touches. My. Hair.

Or at least, that's how I felt only a minute ago.

The two of us stand in the middle of my room for the longest time, one pair of brown eyes glued to the other gray-green ones, and vice-versa. Under a roof in the storm. Shrouded in darkness. Overtaken by each other.

"Um…" I say quietly, shakily after a while (Um…), "La potrebbe…la potrebbe…" (Could you…could you…)

"Che?" he inquires (What?) with no confusion or doubt in his tone. He says it quietly, too.

"La potrebbe, per caso…mettere le sue dita attraverso i miei capelli?" I request (Could you, by any chance...put your fingers through my hair?) I should be shocked by my own words, but instead I remain tranquil and mysterious, just like my surroundings, just like him. I can't control my actions.

Barely able to see his shoulders relax slightly and his arm come up a second time through the deepening darkness, I gradually turn around while he replies as calm and unfazed as ever, "Sicuro." (Sure.)

As soon as I feel his palm reach my locks, my eyes begin to ease shut, and by the time he has immersed both of his hands in the curly brown tresses they are completely closed. I breathe deeply, in, hold it, out, repeat. My muscles lose their tautness. My soul returns to me and it replaces the warm, numb feeling with a warm, sensual feeling. I've never felt this exhilarated. I'm at peace for the first time in only God knows how long; all my worries fall out of my head with each stroke of my patient's fingers through every individual strand of my hair. I moan a little, silently, to express my indescribable pleasure.

Before I know it, he's already traced all my hair up and down. Twice.

"Ringraziarla," I purr softly when his hands retreat (Thank you.) I practically float out of the bedroom, too serene and surprised to look back.

It's official. There's something special about him.


	7. Vera Felicità

**Carlile here (:**

**Sorry for the crappiness of the last chapter. I had writer's block for a long time, plus some parts are hard to write in the same style as chapter five. But I swear this one will be awesome. =D Even I had a spaz attack when I wrote it.**

**I used a different translator this time. I hope it works out better. Yeah, that's right, I really don't know a word of Italian—this is actually a learning experience for me as I am an American naturally speaking English and learning Spanish. **

**My favorite character rankings for KHR are as follows: (1) Hayato Gokudera, (2) Kyoya Hibari, Dino Cavallone, and Mukuro Rokudo, (3) Lambo Bovino and Reborn, (Absolute Last) Naito Longchamp. I HATE Longchamp. He is the definition of annoying. Although I did find the bowling chapter very humorous—those of you who have read that part would know of the hilariousness that I speak of. Oh, and every time Gokudera faints around Bianchi, I laugh so hard. She's crazy but I am too so I can relate; in fact, Bianchi's starting to grow on me. At first I hated her because she caused harm to Gokudera, but I've found she's actually pretty cool. The chap where Bianchi and Reborn had their "wedding" was totally amazing, especially because Gokudera was in a suit and he looks so goddamn good in a suit :P**

**Oh, yes, happy Thanksgiving.**

**I do not own Katekyo Hitman Reborn! or anything related to it. All I own is this computer and my cat.**

**PS to those of you questioning when I will inject the other Vongola into this: If you must know, chapter nine/day eight is when the Vongola peeps talk about Gokudera. Please be patient till then (:**

**PPS to Emily (DarkeFlame): The hair is…well, she just doesn't like people touching her hair. It's just how she is and I thought it was something cute and quirky. If you have a problem with that then talk to me about it in World Geography class or over lunch.**

0o.o0o.o0

**I L . C A P I T O L O . S E T T E : . V E R A . F E L I C I T À**

**(C H A P T E R . S E V E N : . T R U E . B L I S S)**

_Dear diary,_

_I could barely sleep last night because I thought too much about Angelo and what he could possibly mean to me. I was too jittery and excited and confused to do anything but lie on the couch staring up at the ceiling. I probably only got two hours of sleep in total._

_Grandpa wasn't there when I woke up this morning—instead, he left a note on the end table by the couch telling me an emergency patient came in early and needed help so he would be in the clinic. This made me even more nervous since I would be alone in the house with Angelo. I'm twenty minutes late in my daily schedule. I haven't come into the bedroom to get a change of clothes; each time I've done this he's been asleep but now I am afraid he'll be awake and bring up last night and it will be awkward and…augh, I gotta go!_

_Sincerely,  
Luana Diluca_

Angelo comes into the kitchen a few moments after I close the diary. He's wearing a pair of jeans that although it is clean it has seen better days, and since they are my grandfather's pants there is a belt _tied_ around his hips to hold them up. The lack of bandages around his abdomen exposes a large scar at the base of his chest and his skin, still a little damp, shines in the dull sunlight coming through the windowpane. His long silver hair is matted down to his face so I can barely see his gray-green eyes. The shampoo he used is poignant, able to be smelled from across the room.

I feel a little embarrassed with him in the room looking so radiant. My hair is tangled and friend and hanging from my head like an overused brown mop; I'm wearing an old T-shirt of my mother's that is dotted with stains and holes and hangs down too far for anyone to see the shorts I also sport; I lack makeup so the one blackhead on my nose—well, nobody else really notices it except for me, but I still feel bad. I'm basically a wreck.

"Marchio che come la doccia più soddisfacente della storia," he grins upon entry, officially drawing my attention from the breakfast I am preparing to my patient (Mark that down as the most satisfying shower in history.)

"Chi ha detto che si potrebbe ottenere fuori del letto?" I ask suspiciously (Who said you could get out of bed?) He keeps his eyes directly on me, like he is surprised to see me in this rather disgusting aesthetic condition.

"Il nonno," he answers (Your grandfather.) After closing his mouth and flattening his lips, he looks around the kitchen with an impressed expression. "Ho solo avuto un rapido sguardo questa camera prima," he explains (I only got a quick glance at this room before). As he moves through the tiled chamber he continues glancing about and commenting to himself, and I watch him like a hawk the entire time in case he collapses again like the other day. "È abbastanza bello qui." (It's pretty nice in here.) Finally he settles at the front of the room, leaning up against the large window overlooking the brick road. His mouth immediately curls up to a smile once again. "Soprattutto vorrei questo vista." (I especially like this view.) I set a knife down on the counter next to the faucet and skeptically walk to where Angelo Benedetto has landed. Standing cautiously behind him, I observe that it is currently beautiful out there.

Right now the sky over Celebrazione is relatively cloudless and it shines a gorgeous blue color that has been looked away for so long. Two young neighbor boys are riding bikes across the road. The greenery all around is vibrant and lively. Despite the beauty displayed throughout the town, I can see dark clouds in the distance, and there is an absence of wind for the most part but I predict that the storms will be around by this evening.

Before I realize it, my vision has drifted over to Angelo Benedetto. He seems pleased looking down on the neighborhood. The content smile and simplified, tranquil light in his eyes make me feel at ease for only a moment, but then my thoughts wander to last night's hair fiasco.

"Ascoltare, um…" I begin nervously after a short while of quiet watching the action on the block (Listen, um…) He turns his head away from the pane to face me. "Sull'ultima notte…" (About last night…)

"Cosa riguardo?" he inquires innocently (What about it?)

I watch a drop of water fall from his hair and onto his shoulder before continuing. "Non intendo essere strano o niente, sentivo solo come…heh, io non posso davvero descriverlo." (I didn't mean to be weird or anything, I just felt like…heh, I can't really describe it.)

"È bene," he replies. "Io non mente." (It's okay. I didn't mind.)

His reassuring smile takes all the doubt and nervousness away from my mind. It is one of those times where he has changed me, and I have come to accept and actually enjoy it and not question the strange tendencies. I gaze out the window once again and find that the small children from two blocks over have come outside and are now playing soccer.

"Lei sa, Luana," I hear his voice chirp (You know, Luana), "Ho mai ringraziato si." (I never thanked you.)

My head pivots toward him. I see his bare feet first, then the hem of the extremely baggy jeans, and my sight traces up the blue-denim-clothed legs, past his washboard abs, and eventually reaches his face, which displays an enthusiastic and sincere grin. My brown eyes meet his gray-green eyes head-on, since we're the same height now because he's leaning up against the pane.

"Ringraziato me per cosa?" I ask (Thanked me for what?) The question is brought up in a clueless tone.

"Per risparmiare la mia vita," he answers simply (For saving my life.) His smile grows. A single droplet of water plummets from the end of a strand of his damp silver hair and gently lands on his bare shoulder.

I smirk sheepishly. "Oh, è nulla. Io sono un'infermiere. È mia posti di lavoro." (Oh, it's nothing. I'm a nurse. It's my job.)

"Bene, ho l'impressione che lei non farlo per _ogni _paziente." (Well, I get the feeling that you don't do this for _every _patient.) He expresses this along with a rather modest moving of his irises to the side.

I will admit Angelo is the first patient of his kind. With how quickly and cleanly his wounds have healed, he probably could have been discharged yesterday, or at the very least moved to the clinic downstairs. The first five days passed yesterday, and he seems to have completely recovered in that time. But I feel as if he is still weak, as if he still needs me. Or, perhaps…

It is I that need him?

The thought is foreign to me but brought up by my recent propensity to second guess things, to look deeper into them. I mean, sure, I care about my grandfather. I care about Victor. I care about my friends, Teresa, Orlando, and Fabiana. But this caring feeling seems different.

"Questo è vero, ma—" (That is true, but—)

Before I can finish my sentence of revelation, my patient lurches at me. This catches me by surprise.

His arms wrap tight around my shoulders. His hair entangles with mine. The bare skin of his abdomen presses up close and warm against me. His head is pushed up beside mine and tilted down. I can feel his gentle breath on my neck as he whispers inaudibly to me over and over. My body melts like butter in his arms; my mind dissolves in frantic, hot bursts of energy; my heart writhes about wildly in my chest; I shudder and tremble in pleasure a few times.

My very first expression is one of shock at the collision of our bodies, shown by my eyes widening and jaw dropping and a sudden inhalation of air through my mouth. Then there is a silence with conflicting moods, one of stillness and peace from being so tightly bound together and another from attempting, for the most part fruitlessly, to calm myself. Finally, after heaving a sigh, a smile of satisfaction turns up the corners of my mouth. My eyelids relax until they are totally shut. I gradually put my own two arms around him, spreading my palms out over the silken skin of his back. I notice one of his hands is slowly, sensually flowing up and down my back between the base of my neck and the shoulder-blades, wrinkling my giant T-shirt when it runs up and straightening it back out when it runs down.

I figure out what he's saying. "Grazie, grazie, grazie…" (Thank you, thank you, thank you…)

I feel so special in his embrace. Like I can do anything, or nothing. Never have I felt so alive and vibrant and also so serene and purely happy, so important and so unimportant, or so very, very confused.

There is a certain air throughout the kitchen that I sense. It's like the sun from the window, the wave of warm numbness that hit me last night, and myriad other feelings I am yet to have the pleasure of experiencing have all blended together to create a cloud. A cloud as soothing to the touch as Victor's fine fur, as indulgent of an aroma as fresh-baked rolls from the bakery next door, as harmonious in my ears as an angelic fanfare, and all colored the same luscious gray-green shade of Angelo Benedetto's eyes.

If I were to die in this spot, right here and right now, I would have no regrets.

While time ticks away in its forgivingly slow manner, the two of us stand as one bathed in the sunlight emanating from the large windowpane near us. My kitten, with his usual curious and adorable tendencies, dances at our feet for awhile before forfeiting the fight to get our attention, eats the remaining contents of his food bowl, and drifts off to sleep in some nook of the house. All is quiet if one only listens for an instant, but in my extrasensory reality of insensitivity there is the low and silent breath of mine, my patient's constant, lulling "Grazie" (Thank you), the rhythmic pulsations of the clock on the wall, the beating of my heart which keeps so unfathomably excited and tranquil in my head, and every once in a while a laugh or shout from the youths across the street.

My whole being, body and soul, sags in disappointment when I can swear I feel his grip loosening on me, the sign of the embrace ending all too soon. As much as I desire, yearn, plead for this moment to last forever I cannot control fate as its cruel hands and twisted mind controls me like a puppet on a million strings.

The rubbing of his hand up and down my back eases to an almost unnoticeable stop as air floods in between his clean skin and my raggedy old T-shirt, and he slowly raises his head from my shoulder like he wants to comfort me in my departure from his arms. The repetition of the phrase "Grazie" stops (Thank you.) My eyes come open against my will. I can see him now, his handsome face and glittering eyes staring at me, drilling the unfortunate end of our encompassment into my mind. His limbs continue to ensconce me by the shoulders and I hold onto his back with my own for dear life. The imaginary fog enshrouding us dissipates painfully slowly.

We find ourselves unable once again to pull away from one another's gazes, thus we spend another period of time simply gawking at the other. I become lost in gray-green seas of light, drowning, withering, and not possessing a care in the entire world but passionately hoping that he will grab me again and this time keep me with him for eternity.

Before I know it, his face is closer to mine than ever, our eyes are closed, our two heads are slightly turned, touching the tips of our noses together, and both our mouths lay ajar only micrometers away from the other pair of lips as we are tickled by the warm, wet breath of the other on our chins. My consciousness is screaming at me in emergency. Yes!

But instead I find us gravitating away from each other, dropping both our hands to our sides, like God just pressed the slow-motion rewind button of the world. I set my sights upon him again, my patient, my angel twice blessed. His eyes swirl with the same disappointment and helplessness as mine do and his eyebrows are apologetically raised. He blinks once, twice. And then he slips away from me, like a leaf swept up and carried off by the unrelenting winds of fate, gliding across the kitchen with a guilty countenance and pained movements until he is sucked back through the portal to my bedroom and out of my sight.

I reach out for him with my weak arms and my feet chained to the tile floor, my heart pouring out in the same way as my eyes.


	8. L'Interno

**Carlile here :P**

**I'm actually thinking of doing a sequel to Whirlwing, and it would be GokuderaxLuana a little, but mostly HibarixTeresa…thoughts?**

**I like Basil. He has amazing hair (I'm wearing my hair like his right now, actually, parted on the side with a big chunk of bangs covering one eye—it's awesome!), and I love the way he talks all old-fashioned and stuff. Plus he is adorable and the first teenage guy that's just as short as Tsuna. **

**I have decided to add chapter nine to this, so enjoy the snippet of Tsuna's POV. Also, this takes place after the Varia arc but before the Future arc. I didn't add any translations for Tsuna's meeting at the end, since they would be speaking Japanese. So that's in English. **

**As I apologize for the tardiness of this chapter, I will reiterate that I do not own Katekyo Hitman Reborn! or 59-sama or anything related to them. See my nonexistent FaceBook profile for an even larger list of things I do not own. The only things not on there are this computer and my cat. **

0o.o0o.o0

**I L . C A P I T O L O . O T T O : . L ' I N T E R N O**

**( C H A P T E R . E I G H T : . T H E . I N S I D E )**

_Dear diary,_

_So passes another day in the life of me. Ever since yesterday morning, I have been avoiding Angelo Benedetto, avoiding the world. The only living things I have interacted with between then and now are Victor, occasionally my grandfather, and a bug I killed last night. Although it may have just been some speck of dust. I'm still not sure. It was dark and I was delusional._

_I had yet another sleepless night on the couch. I couldn't sleep because I couldn't stop thinking, and I couldn't stop thinking because Angelo was on my mind all through the dark hours. I kept wondering what all these cosmic events meant; I also couldn't help but question whether he thought about me or not. Finally at some ungodly time I rose from my makeshift bed and went into my room to speak with him, until I saw that, when I came in, he was asleep. It was two a.m. _

"Luana!" calls my grandfather, Dr. Damiano Diluca (Luana!) He is at the opposite end of the clinic tending to Mrs. Serafini, who is having her second ultrasound. "Vengono aiutarmi!" (Come help me out!)

_Since I have been slacking lately according to my mother's father, I have double duty in the clinic today. As if it is hard enough fully awake, I'm going on virtually zero hours of sleep. Wish me luck._

_Sincerely,  
Luana Diluca_

0o.o0o.o0

There is a shadowy figure standing in the doorway of the bedroom in the back of the Diluca home. Five-foot-four in height. Through the shadows one can barely tell this figure has long, curly, brown hair and wears a nightgown. It's me.

I have decided that I don't want to wait until tomorrow to address Angelo. Unfortunately this decision came to me at ten o'clock at night, during another fit of sleeplessness.

"Angelo," I call softly from the threshold, "Lei è sveglio?" (Angelo, are you awake?)

After a bit of stirring, his deep voice comes through the darkness. "Ora io sono." (Now I am.)

Feeling guilty for waking him, I peer down at my feet which I cannot see. "Um, sono il tipo di freddo, così…l'io…?" (Um, I'm cold, so…can I…?) I can't finish the sentence. I thought I had mustered up enough courage to speak with him, but as I stand, a figment of exhaustion in the black air of the house, I melt at just the thought of him.

"Sicuro," he replies (Sure.) I don't know what he thinks I mean, but I do assume what his answer translates to. I timidly take a few steps forward, sliding my naked feet against the carpet which scratches at the soles. Although I know full well the layout of my bedroom, I keep going forward until my knees hit the edge of the bed. Now that my eyes have adjusted and the two of us are closer to each other, I can see him in full.

Angelo is prone on his back. His long, silver hair is sprawled out underneath his head and covering the pillow he uses. The dull gray-green pools situated near the top of his head peer at me with stifled enthusiasm. His chest is bare and exposed, with no bandages, shirt, or blanket over him. The wisps of covers come up to his hips, though I can make out the waist of a pair of sweatpants barely peeking out past the gray bedspread.

He lifts the corner of the coverlet, offering me a space in bed right beside him. I turn slightly, sit on the mattress, and lie flat. He then covers me back up.

Quickly and casually I close my eyes once I situate myself under the covers well enough to stay warm. It's been a week since I've slept in my own bed; the satisfaction of lying on the sheets with the blankets draped over me and relieving the pressure that has built up in my muscles for so long is indescribable. Immediately after joining my eyelids together, I begin to fall asleep. The gently rolling thunder and falling rain outside lull me.

When I have just about reached the much-desired realm of sleep I feel something smooth and warm spread out over and stroke my cheek. My brown eyes open exhaustedly, revealing to me a certain silver-haired teenage boy that is pulling me out of consciousness.

"Oh, mi dispiace, Luana," he breathes (Oh, I'm sorry, Luana.) "Se si desidera dormire che è bene." (If you want to sleep that's okay.)

"Beh," I yawn (Well), "Che cosa ha fatto avete en mente di fare?" (What did you have in mind to do?) I say this involuntarily, but after it is uttered I encourage it for some reason.

"Ero curioso solo qualcosa." (I was just curious about something.) His tone is soft and tranquil, like I can reach out and touch it and it will feel like Victor. Instead my hand emerges from beneath the blanket we share and clutches around his hand. With the tips of my fingers on his knuckles, I cannot help but smile as his thumb caresses my face. Each time I blink I plummet down the steep slope to sleep and I awaken to face the young man in my bed each time I open my eyes. He still has the same guilty countenance he had yesterday morning, and he stares me straight in the eye, giving me the pleasure of seeing his beautiful gray-green irises.

"Che?" (What?)

"Io non hai mai visto i tuoi genitori intorno," he replies, a caring, passionate glint in his eyes (I've never seen your parents around.)

Chuckling breathily, I give him a solution. "Introduzione alle loro domani." (I can introduce you to them tomorrow.)

He smiles at me. This upturning of his lips breathes life into me. I immediately feel the same delight that warmed my soul a few days ago, when the two of us were embracing for the first time. I'm on top of the world again, feeling tingles of bliss tickle me from the inside out.

I gaze at him blankly as his attention and loose grip pulls away from me. I'm in pure serenity, until two tiny spots on my back are pressed on. Victor climbs over me like I am a mountain, slides down my chest, and rolls onto the tiny space on the bed between my patient and me. I reach toward the feline's tiny head and my fingers come into contact with two things: one, his soft brown fur, and two, Angelo's hand.

My kitten's head tilts back, eyes close, and purrs burst immediately. Looking into the eyes of the angel twice blessed once again, the air around us is palpable with sparks. His smile livens me up once again to the point where I can stay awake for another moment.

"Um…" I stutter. It's now or never that this should be addressed. "Mi domandavo…riguarde ieri…" (Um…I was wondering…regarding yesterday…)

"Sono spiacente," he whimpers (I'm sorry.) I did _not_ expect that. "I davvero non so ciò che è emerso nel corso mi torna la speranza di lì…i non era scomondo per tu." (I don't really know what came over me back there…I hope it wasn't uncomfortable for you.)

Actually, it was the complete opposite of uncomfortable, but it's not like I'm going to tell him that. "È bene." (It's okay.)

The overwhelming yearning to keep his voice in my ears overtakes me, along with an even stronger urge to sleep. Slipping my hand off of my household pet and closing my brown eyes, my decision is clear.

I'm on the vessel bound for the land of dreams and peace, but I am alone. The boat refuses to do naught but bob up and down in the mild waves. Stranded on the island of suffering known as consciousness, I wait for an unbearable, sleepless time for my sails to pick up.

I sit exasperatedly on the edge of the small boat. My weight crashing down sets its balance off. It's so eerily still until a modest breeze caresses my skin.

Startled and enthusiastic, I stand back up in the middle of the boat, steadying its gradually more dramatic swaying. My hair flutters in the wind, the hem of my nightgown rolls and billows across my legs, and the wind, soft as silk, flows past my ears. Beating waves slide my vessel off the shore and into the shallow water surrounding the bank. The starlit heavens send tiny beams of light down to dance atop the vast ocean, and they disappear one by one with the incoming of clouds. These wisps of vapor breathe with thunder. With each gentle gust I can hear words uttered harmoniously.

"Vi sono molti neonati nella mondo, ma nessuno di essi sono come tu…" (There are a lot of babies in the world, but none of them are like you…)

This voice is calming and familiar, almost like it is purposely relaxing me. I grasp the pole in the center of the small ship which sustains the sails, now activated, and let the wind and the song cleanse me from my exhaustion and pain.

"Così bella, così intelligente, tutti coloro che si perdono la loro compasso…" (So beautiful, so intelligent, all those who meet you lose their compass…)

As the voice is more swept up by the strengthening gusts, I attempt to distinguish just who it sounds like.

"Dimenticano i loro nomi e dove erano andare…" (They forget their names and where they were going…)

Finally the luxurious tone is identifiable to me. Angelo Benedetto is singing a quiet song to me. It's the wind pushing me across the body of water, the slivers of rain falling from the poufs of clouds and landing on my skin, the black, stirring liquid below that propels me toward the paradise known as night, the fog ensconcing the endless world around me, the streaks of light that illuminate my path from above.

"Amo sia quando si dormire e quando si è svegliarsi…" (I love both when you sleep and when you are awake…)

The song, _Quanti Bambini_, is what my grandfather used to sing to me every night as a child. He keeps reciting it in a melodic whisper until I can't hear him anymore and the storm has delivered me safely to sleep.

0o.o0o.o0

It's dark rather early in Namimori, Japan, and the lights pouring out of the windows of the Sawada house interrupt the black air. Inside is the weekly meeting of the tenth generation leaders of the Vongola mob.

A man of rather short stature wearing a fedora takes attendance. Of course Tsunayoshi Sawada is present and accounted for—as the tenth boss of the Vongola Famiglia, it is his duty to be so. Takeshi Yamamoto: here. Chrome Dokuro: here, representing Mukuro Rokudo who is currently confined to prison. Lambo: here. Ryohei Sasagawa: here. There are two absentees.

Kyoya Hibari very rarely shows up for the bulk of the weekly meetings, although for each one he does make an appearance, "conveniently" arriving at a later time, after the business is done but before the snacks are put up.

But this is the second meeting in a row without Hayato Gokudera.

Last week's congregation was expectedly minus the chain-smoking dynamite enthusiast. He was gone away for a week—Sunday and Monday he represented Tsunayoshi and met with the current Cavallone boss, Bucking Horse Dino; Tuesday he spoke with Colonello; Wednesday was spent at a funeral for the boss of a mob close to the Vongola; Thursday, Friday, and Saturday he used as personal vacation days. He was to return late Sunday night. However, he never did.

And now an overall frightened and sad aura ferments in the brightly lit room lined with couches and chairs. Chrome has a fairly depressed countenance. Ryohei's eyes don't burn like they always do. Probably the most devastated of all the boys is Tsuna, whose eyes keep reverting to the empty spot next to him, to his right, where he wishes any minute the silver-haired teenager would burst through the front door and sit in.

This chair is appropriately referred to by the others as the "Right Hand Man Chair," and this is for many reasons. One is that Gokudera is Tsuna's official right-hand man, and therefore he not only gets to sit next to him, but to his _right_. This is the second most comfortable chair in the room (he would not accept the first one and insisted that Tsuna should have it) and it reclines, which the Storm Guardian often likes to flaunt during meetings. Nobody dares occupy this chair except for Hayato himself, because A) he would beat anyone up that did, B) Tsuna and Reborn would not allow it, C) only he, Reborn, Tsuna, and Maman and Papan know how to work it, and D) it smells strongly of cigarettes, and probably has a few volatile sticks of dynamite hidden between the cushions. In conclusion, this is Gokudera's seat, and it is empty.

"Our first order of business," Reborn begins, and then he peers over at Tsuna, who has been nibbling on the same handful of pretzels since before anyone even arrived.

"The disappearance of Gokudera is our top priority," the tenth boss finishes. "Anyone have anything to say about the subject?" His tone is solemn.

Everyone in the room raises their hands, including, surprisingly, Reborn, who sits on the back of Tsuna's chair facing the others. The Sky Guardian calls upon the fastest responder, Yamamoto.

"Hibari told me that Gokudera told him that he had some 'unfinished business to take care of.' Being in the mafia, it's obvious what we should assume."

"What _would _he do?" Lambo poses, almost sarcastically.

"We need to be serious, here," Reborn scolds. He whacks the Lightning Guardian upside the head, an unnecessary punishment, really.

"We should just end the worry and call him," Chrome suggests sensibly.

Ryohei stands and, in agreement with his blue-haired comrade, shouts, "Yeah! We're smart people! Why couldn't we have thought of that before?!"

"Because it's impossible to reach him," Yamamoto states. All eyes turn to him. "I've already called his sister, Dr. Shamal, the Ninth, Dino, and pretty much anyone else that is associated with him. None of them have been able to get ahold of him since last Sunday. I've run into the same obstacles they have, trying to speak to him directly, because his phone goes straight to voicemail."

The boxing club president, now disproven, seats himself.

"So it's off, that means," Tsunayoshi mumbles.

"What about the hotel?" Chrome adds.

"No good," the baseball player replies.

"Damn," curses a voice too quietly for anyone to tell whose it is.

An eerie silence falls over the young mafiosi occupying the room. Gokudera has many enemies. There are limitless possibilities to what could have happened, and they would rather not consider any of them.

A sniffle breaks the stillness, and it's quite obvious whose it is.

With every eye in the room on him, Lambo tries to hide his bright red cheeks and wet green eyes. "Oh, God, Gokudera! I wish you were here!" He is unable to control his grief and leans on Yamamoto's shoulder to weep. In return, the Rain Guardian puts his arm around the Bovino hitman and pats him on the back.

"It's okay," Takeshi says in a wavering tone.

Reborn is angry over the weakness of the two boys. "Get ahold of yourselves!" he shouts, but for once nobody's paying attention to him, which multiplies his anger.

On one hand, Lambo cries about everything, so the fact that he is in this meeting is no surprise to anyone. On the other hand, Lambo despises Gokudera, and so does Yamamoto.

"I guess you hate him while he's here, but you miss him when he's gone," Chrome mumbles, more to herself than her two rather emotional comrades.

"Guys, please calm down," Tsuna pleads. "We've got to address this."

Ryohei gulps before requesting of his boss, "Tsuna, could you call me Lawn Head?"

Immediately a quizzical expression smacks Iemitsu's son's face. "What?"

"Call me Lawn Head! Please?"

"Why?"

"Because that was Gokudera's nickname for me, and I miss it."

Tsuna mutters "Lawn Head" extremely quietly and in a very frustrated way while rolling his eyes.

Reborn is about to open his mouth again when the opening and slamming of the front door can be heard in the living room. Kyoya Hibari enters the premise ten seconds later, the tiny bird on his head copying the awkwardness of the situation.

"Hibari! You're here! Thank God!" Tsuna beams.

Keeping his usual aloof demeanor, the Cloud Guardian replies, "No. I left my jacket here and came to get it back."

"Please stay," Reborn commands as he pounds his fists on the tops of Lambo and Yamamoto's heads. Leon stirs a little on the brim of his fedora.

The head prefect for Nami High, having never been able to resist the peculiar Arcobaleno, stiffly seats himself on his usually unoccupied chair, still retaining an aura of stubbornness. "If I get two-thousand yen from each of you, I'll talk."

As much as his comrades dislike Hibari's coldness, they all take their wallets from their pockets, pluck out 2000* yen, and place it on the coffee table. Kyoya then proceeds to scoop it all into his own wallet. "Now let's get down to business," he says sharply.

"Do you know anything about Gokudera's disappearance?" Reborn asks. He knows that if he doesn't get to the point right away Hibari will become impatient and leave and all the money they gave him would be in vain.

He takes a deep breath and grabs a handful of chips. "He told me about the place he's going on vacation to…what was it? Some lake…Lake Codo? Lake Copo?" This really is all he knows; it's customary for him to deliver the knowledge in the most indirect and frustrating way possible.

"Lake Como!" Lambo screams. "Lucky bastard. I love that place."

"But he's been gone an extra week," Ryohei says. "He could be anywhere by now. Plus, Yamamoto said the hotel said he left already."

"No, they just can't reach him," Yamamoto corrects, adding, "Don't put words in my mouth."

"Now that you mention it, he had 'unfinished business.' Maybe he never went there at all." This striking possibility is brought up by Kyoya.

"He and I have talked to each other about Dad quite a bit lately," says a feminine voice not possessed by Chrome. Everyone looks at the fair, pink-haired older half-sister of Hayato Gokudera, Bianchi, who leans into the conversation from the doorway. "It could be that he went to consult him." The word "consult" has extra emphasis.

Everybody ponders this for a moment as Bianchi makes herself scarce in her favorite room of the Sawada house, the kitchen.

"A dastardly machination conjured up by Dr. Shamal and Gokudera to blow up his father's mansion…and Colonello would be in on it, too…" Lambo mumbles.

Tsuna raises one brown eyebrow. "Sometimes I wonder just what goes on in that strange brain of yours."

With an uncharacteristically heavy sigh, Reborn says, "Maybe we should drop this subject and move on to different business. We could have a meeting tomorrow night, after we have some time to gather our thoughts."

The Vongola elites agree: discussion over Gokudera's disappearance will be postponed.

0o.o0o.o0

***A/N: Equivalent to about 20 US dollars. **


	9. Rivelazioni E Nemici

**Carlile here.**

**I would like to apologize once again for the lateness of my last chapter…I'm really trying not to crap out on this story like I do with all my others. But I have a good feeling about this one. It's the first story where I have everything planned out so I know what I'm doing, but I still have some leeway with the ideas and timing, unlike all my other fanfics where I plan every single little detail. And I especially hope you all like it.**

**The meeting between Tsuna and the others regarding Gokudera/Angelo happened last chapter (change of plans.)**

**Personally I think this chapter is rather shocking. Please don't sue me.**

**The reviews must get up to 45 or more before I post chapter ten!**

**BELPHEGOR IS FREAKY!!! AND SQUALO, TOO!**

**I do not own Katekyo Hitman Reborn!, Gokudera, or anything related to them. I **_**do**_** own Luana, Fabiana, Teresa, Damiano, Orlando, Giovanni, Victor, and all those other people of my own creation. I also own this computer and my cat.**

0o.o0o.o0

**I L . C A P I T O L O . N O V E : . R I V E L A Z I O N I . E . N E M I C I**

**( C H A P T E R . N I N E : . R E V E L A T I O N S . A N D . E N E M I E S )**

I awaken to a minute tickling sensation on my face.

"Victor…" I choke out, a jolt in my voice from the giggle, "Fermata essa." (Victor, stop it.) My hand flies up out of the covers and lands on his soft head, causing him to cease his licking. I blink my eyes open over the next few minutes while scratching the nook on the back of his skull. His dandelion yellow eyes are narrowed, too, and he's purring; if I didn't know better, I would say my cat was flirting with me.

Angelo's not there, which at first doesn't concern me since my sweet kitten takes away all my early morning worries. Grandpa probably came in here earlier to wake him up. But then he would have seen me in this bed with him…that must have been quite an argument. And I slept through it!

I'm just about to finish my rambling thoughts and get up to check the time when there's a knock at my bedroom door.

"Entrare," I call while sitting up (Come in.)

The knob turns and the panel slowly swoops in. My patient steps through the opened door and, without going back to shut it, walks to my bedside. He's wearing another pair of my grandfather's jeans, which don't fit him at all, but at least he's wearing something.

"Ciao," I grin (Hi.)

Before he can reply, Victor leaps off the bed and headbutts him in the chest. He immediately catches him. "Ferma! Ehi!" (Whoa! Hey!)

We laugh simultaneously. Then I ask the necessary question. "A che ora è questo?" (What time is it?)

"Di…noon." (About…noon.) His response is in a smug tone, his hand is running down Victor's silken fur, and his eyes are bright and right on me.

"Perbacco! Quando hai ricevuto?" (Gosh! When did you get up?)

"Sei e trenta." (Six-thirty.)

"Perché non si mi svegli?!" I inquire facetiously (Why didn't you wake me?!)

He winces a little and whimpers, "Perche lei guarda così carino addormentato." (Because you look so cute asleep.)

Scoffing, I lift and push the covers off of me, set my feet down on the floor one at a time, and stretch one of my arms out by sticking it up in the air and holding it with the other once I'm steady. "Bene, io mangio qualcosa, prendere una doccia, probabilmente, è consigliabile posizionare una camicia su. Dobbiamo fare en modo che sarà presto se non vogliamo vedere i miei genitori sotto la pioggia." (Well, I should eat something, take a shower, you should probably put a shirt on. We have to get going soon if we don't want to see my parents in the rain.)

"Che è il piano," he says (That's the plan.) He follows me out of the room, my cat in his arms.

0o.o0o.o0

_Dear diary,_

_Today I will be taking Angelo to "meet" my parents. My dad was killed before I was even born. My mom died when I was ten months old. Why else would I live with my grandfather?_

_Last night I slept in the same bed with my patient. He sang me to sleep. How sweet! I thought it would feel awkward, but it was actually very enjoyable, very comfortable. I'm thinking I'll do that again tonight. Sheesh, listen to me, I sound so wrong. I guess you might say Angelo is exciting to me. And I guess you might say…I like him. (: _

_Sincerely,  
Luana Diluca_

Thinking about that diary entry I wrote only fifteen minutes ago while holding an umbrella straight above our heads to shield the two of us from the light, steady rain, I loom over the graves with the angel twice blessed. The stones are side by side, not special in any way. They blend in to the rest of the graveyard for most people, though my grandfather and I can spot them right away. Other than the rain, our breathing, and the occasional person walking past, silence makes the air taut. We are drowning in the thick, humid cloud hanging low over Celebrazione's graveyard.

Angelo has a very solemn look on his handsome face. He swallows hard. Capturing the essence of the town graveyard, his gray-green eyes blink tiredly.

"Così," he finally utters, his voice washing away in the heavy mist, "Questo è tuo padre e madre." (So, this is your mother and father.)

I nod, even though he can't see me do so. Being at such a close proximity to each other, I cannot help but blush. "Uh, si." (Uh, yeah.)

Breathing the dense air in, he says shakily, "Sono spiacente." (I'm sorry.) His finger hooks into a pocket in the back of the pants. "Questo è davvero infelice." (That's really unfortunate.)

"È bene," I reply (It's okay.) "Se ero stato più anziane quando ho perso essa avrebbe conseguenze mi molto di più. Sapevo, così mi non sento alcun dolore. Mi sento niente per loro. Semmai effetivamente rispedite loro." (If I had been older when I lost them, it would affect me a lot more. I didn't know them, so I feel no grief. I feel nothing for them. If anything I actually resent them.)

Now he turns his head and my muddy brown eyes meet with his eyes. "Perchè?" (Why?) His voice is deep and profound sounding, and it is colored gray. Gray like the stones before us. Gray like the waters of Lake Como during a storm. Gray like his eyes in the dark, like the base coat of the color in this frame of the world, like my dress, like his hair. This gray only adds to the somberness of the landscape.

"Avevano me fuori del matrimonio." (They had me out of wedlock.)

"Oh." (Oh.) He sighs quietly.

The minutes pass as I stand in front of the graves of Sabrina Diluca and Abele Velona, roofed by a large white umbrella, the single dry thing in a falling sea. The strengthening storm's waves of rain and whistles of wind allow nature to breathe.

"Tutti i diritti, Angelo," I exhale noisily, "andiamo." (All right, Angelo, let's go.) I turn and my eyes wander a few inches upward to see his face, only to find that either he has turned invisible or he isn't there.

"Angelo!" I call out, immediately thrown into a panic (Angelo!) This would be the second time he has lost himself in the rain. The last thing I want is for him to catch a cold. I take a rushed step forward, lose my footing in the slippery ground, and am about to fall helplessly atop my father's grave when something blocks me from decreasing my altitude any further.

"Essere attenti," Angelo's voice says softly, gently (Be careful.)

His goal is to set me up straight, but instead before I'm up all the way I whip around and press myself against his abdomen. His sopping wet shirt soaks into my dress, and the water running down his hair and face falls onto the top of my head. I grip him at the shoulders and bury my face in his collar. He wraps one arm around me, pulling me closer. I don't care that he's making me wet. I can feel his free arm moving around a little; I can't tell where it is until his gentle fingers take the umbrella handle from mine and hold it over us steadily.

The accumulated water from his person warms between us. The sensations are many and wonderful: the hum of the rain pinning us down, the gusting of the wind wrapping around us, the caress of his breath on my scalp. Oh! This is one of those moments I wish I could trap and stay in forever.

Finally my neck cranes upward to see him looking down at me with a dreamy expression. "Dove eravate?" I ask, surprisingly sounding like I'm about to cry (Where were you?)

He tilts his head and his pupils bounce off the bottom of his eyes, gesturing for me to look at his pocket. Two flowers stick out the top.

"Pensato ai vostri genitori dovevano essere rispettati," he mutters as I stare at the pair of beautiful plants. "Essi devono essere stati grandi persone se hanno avuto una figlia come te." (I figured your parents needed to be respected. They must have been great people if they had a daughter like you.)

My already fluttering heartbeat skyrockets and heats noticeably.

"Grazie," I murmur (Thank you.) Our eyes meet again. My hands slide down his back, resting my bent elbows on his shoulders and my limp hands float over his shoulder-blades. Closing my eyes, I nuzzle his collar a little, then rest my head beside his neck. The arm he has around me tightens, putting the two of us at an intimate enclosure.

Non mi piace lui. Ho _davvero_ come lui. Molto. (I don't like him. I _really_ like him. A lot.)

I feel his chin come gently down beside my head as he hunches over just a little. The calm poufs of breath emanating from his face tickle the back of my neck.

When a short while has gone by of the two of us embracing each other before the audience of the deceased, his left shoulder shakes minutely. Rain comes down on both of us all at once; the squishing of the umbrella down onto the muddy ground is barely audible. His other arm ensconces me and both limbs tighten. I don't even notice that he has taken his head off of my shoulder, or that I've taken my head off of his shoulder, until I feel something soft, warm, and wet on my forehead. It stays for a minute or so, and then it leaves with a quiet smacking sound.

Egli è davvero un angelo, I think to myself. (He truly is an angel.)

He tightens his arms' grasp one last time and clenches the back of my dress with his right fist. "Dovremmo andare alla casa ora?" he whispers, his voice tangible in my ear (Should we go home now?) Yet again our eyes meet.

"Solo se si desidara," I reply, my tone numb and sleepy from pleasure (Only if you want to.)

"Cosa succede se penso dovrebbe, prima ci cattura un raffreddore?" he asks (What if I think we should, before we catch a cold?)

"Quindi è bene da me." (Then it's fine by me.) Actually, it isn't, but we have to break it off sooner or later.

We release each other slowly, like strings plucking out one by one from a rope until it breaks, and so does the physical bond between us fade away. I bend down and pick the umbrella off the ground, using the rain to help wash the mud from the white on top, and when I finish I look over at the graves to see that my patient has placed a flower at each of them and is just finishing a silent prayer. He maneuvers his hand from his head to one shoulder to the other shoulder, then kisses it and places his open palm on top of my mother's gravestone.

I catch him by surprise when I come up behind him and hold the umbrella over both our heads. He turns around in an instant, smiling, and the two of us begin to walk to the gate of the bone yard.

Beyond the ominous black wrought iron fence surrounding the area, a shiny, new, red car waits. The pitch black window rolls down. Just inside it is a familiar face.

"Luana, cara!" shouts the young man from the open window of the vehicle (Luana, darling!)

A large grin comes over me. "Orlando!" I call back, waving at him with the hand I'm not using for holding the umbrella (Orlando!) My patient and I pick up the pace of our steps to reach my childhood friend faster.

Orlando Mattiazzi has dark olive skin, short red hair, cheery black eyes, and a short stature.

"Era come Milano?" I ask him as Angelo Benedetto and I stand just outside the window (How was Milan?)

The nephew of a wealthy car company owner laughs a little. "Non chiederò perché lei immerge bagnato. Um, Milano era bene. Che ha continuato mentre ero assente?" (I'm not going to ask why you're soaking wet. Um, Milan was fine. What went on while I was away?) While raising this question, his eyes are fixed on my patient.

Without directly answering his question, I introduce the two teenage boys to each other. "Angelo, si tratta di Orlando Mattiazzi, uno dei miei migliori amici. Orlando, questo è il mio nuovo, e…io dei pazienti indovinare amico, troppo, Angelo Benedetto." (Angelo, this is Orlando Mattiazzi, one of my best friends. Orlando, this is my new patient and…I guess friend, too, Angelo Benedetto.)

Angelo reaches his dripping hand into the open window and the two of them shake hands. "Ciao," Orlando says in his usual friendly tone (Hello.) Angelo nods.

"Luana!" (Luana!)

I turn on a dime to the direction where the summoning originated. In front of a shop is Gina Spano, one of my many friends. Her short black hair is slicked to her face. "Vengono qui! Bisogno del vostro aiuto!" (Come here! I need your help!)

I glance between her and the two boys for a few seconds before I make my decision. "Angelo, posso prendere l'ombrello? Ci risentiremo giusta posteriore." (Angelo, can I take the umbrella? I'll be right back.)

"Sicuro," he replies (Sure.) He hands it off to me, and I dash away to the shop. Gina escorts me inside and shows me her sick cat.

While I treat my friend's pet, Orlando and Angelo have a conversation.

Both boys instantly put on serious, intimidating faces.

"Lo sguardo familiare," the redhead exclaims (You look familiar.)

My patient's eyes are cold and hard as stone and his voice is rigid. "Dovrebbe, 'Cavaliere Ostinato' Lando." (I should, 'Obstinate Rider Lando.)

"Ha. Lei è 'la Fumo Bomba' Hayato Gokudera della plebaglia di Vongola. Ora so dove l'ho vista prima." (Ha. You're 'Smokin' Bomb' Hayato Gokudera of the Vongola mob. Now I know where I've seen you before.) Orlando's teeth show a little too much in the smile. "Mi dice, che è un assassino irriducibile come te stesso facendo in questa città dimenticata?" (Tell me, what's a hard-core killer such as yourself doing in this godforsaken town?)

"Ero effetivamente qui in vacanza fino a uno dei tuo agenti provocatori mi ripresi. Ora sono bloccato qui." (I was actually here on vacation until one of your goons shot me. Now I'm stuck here.)

"Oh? Che cosa rende è dire che si tratta di uno dei miei uomini?" (Oh? What makes you say it's one of my men?)

"L'unica plebaglia coinvolti in questa città è la Mattiazzi Famiglia, quindi è piuttosto ovvia. Pensavo che sarei sicuro qui da voi ragazzi sono alleati della Vongola, ma immagino che sono sbagliato." (The only mob involved in this town is the Mattiazzi Family, so it's rather obvious. I thought I would be safe here since you guys are allies of the Vongola, but I guess I'm mistaken.)

"Bene, mi dispiace. Sono stato lontano a Milano, um, 'famiglia aziendali', quindi deve essere stato un incidente." (Well, I am sorry about that. I was away in Milan on, um, 'family business', so it must have been an accident.) Orlando's shoulder is tapped on by his driver, and right then he gives the one moment hand signal to speak with his wise subordinate and chauffer.

"Signore, ritengo veramente che non comprende la gravità delle questa situazione. Che 'la Fumo Bomba' è praticamente un'arma dell'uomo. Inoltre ha davvero buone relazioni. È l'uomo di destra ufficiale della Vongola Decima Presidente e tutti sappiamo quanto potente il Vongola è. Io sto parlando del Mattiazzi Famiglia potrà essere sconfitto completamente entro una settimana se noi li attraversano. Vi prego di essere grave." (Sir, I really think you don't understand the severity of this situation. That 'Smokin' Bomb' is practically a human weapon. Plus he has really good relations. He's the official right hand man of the Vongola tenth boss, and we all know how powerful the Vongola is. I'm talking the Mattiazzi Family will be completely vanquished within a week if we cross them. Please be serious.) His driver, Giovanni Ramogido, has a mysterious appearance, like a secret service agent.

Orlando turns back to the silver-haired gunshot victim, a little defeated. "Io, uh, spero che lei può trascurare quest'episodio e non causerà qualunque contese tra le nostre famiglie?" he pleads (I, uh, hope that you can overlook this incident and it won't cause any feuds between our families?)

Angelo smiles. He's in control. "Lei è appena fortunato che sono di buon umore…e che Luana ha buttato via tutta la dinamite. L'inferno, neanche posso bruciarla con una sigaretta. Ho vissuto, dunque sono giusto, ma dovrò riferire questo al Decimo." (You're just lucky I'm in a good mood…and that Luana threw away all my dynamite. Hell, I can't even burn you with a cigarette. I lived, so I'm okay, but I'm going to have to report this to the Tenth)

The redhead pouts some. Then he changes the subject. "Parlare di Luana, ciò che sono lei facendo con lei?" (Speaking of Luana, what are you doing with her?)

"Guarisce me. Non appena è fatto, sono andato, di nuovo al Giappone." (She's healing me. As soon as she's done, I'm gone, back to Japan.)

Beaming again, Orlando says under his breath, "Il buono lavoro, Luana." (Good job, Luana.)

With a deepening scowl Angelo barks, "Non coinvolgerla in questa merda. La sua anima è troppo gentile per la mafia. Romperebbe in un giorno." (Don't involve her in this shit. Her soul is too gentle for the mafia. She would crack in a day.)

"Non sono," Orlando gulps, "Finché lei non fa, sia." (I'm not, as long as you don't, either.)

Giovanni comments from the seat at the other end of the car, "Così lei entrambi ha l'etichetta." (So you both have etiquette.)

Hayato/Angelo opens his mouth, but his potential voice is cut off by my sudden arrival.

"Ehi, gli individui!" I greet cheerily (Hey, guys!) Both boys smile at me with their mouths, but their eyes still have a serious look. I hold the umbrella over Angelo and me with a puzzled countenance.

"Prendiamo per andare," my patient grunts (Let's get going.)

"Ahimè, devo partire anche," Orlando adds, nodding (Alas, I must depart as well.) "La vedrò due dopo. Au revoir, Luana." (I will see you two later. Au revoir, Luana.) The window rolls up, coming up over his face, and the car's engine starts up and glides down the road, around a corner, out of sight.

The angel twice blessed and I begin to walk home together, under the white umbrella that repels the raindrops from us. Nothing is said, nothing is heard. I don't know. I don't ask.

0o.o0o.o0

**A/N: Luana didn't hear the conversation between Hayato/Angelo and Orlando, so she really has no idea that Orlando or Hayato/Angelo are mafiosi, or that Hayato/Angelo is faking the amnesia. **


	10. Sonno

**Yo, yo, yo! Carlile in tha' house! JK. I am no gangster.**

**I found a video the other day with all Gokudera's Juudaime moments in the anime, episodes 1-100something. Ten minutes total. And I watched it all the way through. I was saying Juudaime in my sleep that night. **

**Five reviews please! I don't mean to be pushy. And also I would like to thank those of you who did review.**

**I do not own Katekyo Hitman Reborn! or anything related to it. All I own is this computer and my cat.**

0o.o0o.o0

**( I L . C A P I T O L O . D I E C I : . S O N N O )**

**( C H A P T E R . T E N : . S L E E P )**

_Dear diary,_

_I have bad news, and news that is good in nature but bad for me. The bad news is that—of course!—Angelo is sick. Yes, he told me he was congested and nauseated and had a headache not even an hour after we came home from the cemetery. I was torn about that; either I would go through with sleeping in the same bed with him again tonight and risk catching a cold, too, which wouldn't really be too bad because I'd have off of work and I'd get to hang out with him all day, though sadly I would be sick, and as much as I would highly appreciate time with Angelo Benedetto catching a cold would be suckish. Before my decision could be made, Fabiana called me asking if I could sleep over at her place. I accepted. It's ten now and I just came back from her house. I haven't even taken my raincoat off yet. _

_But honestly I cannot wait to see Angelo today._

_Sincerely,  
Luana Diluca_

Immediately when I put down my pen and close my diary, I give Victor a quick stroke down the back and literally run to my bedroom at the other side of the home.

"Angelo!" I shout, a big, dopey grin on my face (Angelo!) Two sets of eyes stare dead-on at me. One gray-green, and the other brown behind glasses.

A glass stick filled with red liquid is held between the index finger and thumb of Dr. Damiano Diluca's left hand; his right hand holds a clipboard; a pencil is pinned behind his ear. Angelo Benedetto is lazily propped up in bed, shirt off (something I must admit I missed), skin blanched, eyes tired, hair amok, and his hand is clutching at his stomach. I stand in an awkward position, and each of us remain frozen for a moment, the gazes of the men on me and my vision blurring the both of them out as my mind focuses on the momentary discomfiture. My cat's entrance into the room brings life back to us.

"Uh, qui," my grandfather says blankly, his glaring reading glasses still pinpointed on me like a laser, "Prenderò ancora la vostra temperatura." (Uh, here, I'll take your temperature again.) He makes little effort to hand the thermometer back to the patient, who must lean forward to retrieve it and afterward sticks it in his mouth. Victor's tiny, brown, furry body makes its way onto the teenage boy's lap; the feline is accommodated well as the pale hand runs down his back repeatedly.

"Sono venuto appena a, um, ho messo il mio cappotto in su," I whisper loudly (I just came to, um, put my coat up.) I walk into my closet rather indignantly and unwillingly, and without thought shut the door behind me. A mild darkness overtakes the small room filled with books and clothes. I lean back up against the panel for a moment, trying to think of ways to recover from what just occurred. Then once I've fruitlessly scanned through all possible options, I stand erect and place a hand on the collar of my raincoat, and rather overdramatically slip it down and off of me one sleeve at a time until it is completely removed from my person and draped over a hook. There is a brief period of bracing myself, and finally I open the closet door again to find my mother's father removing the thermometer from the mouth of the angel twice blessed.

"100.3," he reads (100.3.) "È sceso la metà un di grado a partire dall'ultima volta. Quello è buono." (It's gone down half a degree from last time. That's good.) He sets the thin glass tube on my nightstand with a clinking sound, pulls the pencil out, and records the development on his clipboard.

"Gioia," replies Angelo in a sarcastic tone (Joy.) He lies back down defiantly, jolting the covers back over him. Victor, startled from the movement, moves himself and crawls under the blankets. The house pet is visible as a lump under the bedding.

Damiano, once finished with his scribing, peers back over at me. His two strange front teeth—the gold one and the chipped one—show when he speaks to me. "Così, come era ieri sera al Fabiana?" (So, how was it last night at Fabiana's?)

"Era freddo," I reply as composed as possible (It was cool.) Being in a room with the only two people in the world that can tell when I am lying really causes pressure. Especially when you have lied already. "Il suo fratellastro era là. Ho incontrato la sua nuova amica. Sembra piacevole reale, ma appena ha la risata più difettosa." (Her step-brother was there. I met his new girlfriend. She seems real nice, but just has the worst laugh)

The 60-year-old cannot conjugate an appropriate response fast enough, so he just nods. "Lo lascerò incaricato di cura dell'Angelo, Luana. Sono sicuro che spettate esso poiché non state lavorando molto ultimamente." (I will leave you in charge of Angelo's care, Luana. I'm sure you're up to it since you haven't been working very much lately.)

"A-approvazione." (O-okay.) Before I can even contemplate why I said okay the Celebrazione town doctor leaves my room. He almost closes my door, leaving it open only a crack.

Not knowing what exactly I am supposed to do, I simply stand by the wall of the room with my arms crossed, only half alert, and watch the silver-haired mystery patient fall asleep.

0o.o0o.o0

The day's been uneventful. I have spent all of my time in my room, watching over a slumbering angel, with the exception of eating, getting medicine, and bathroom breaks. When I walk into the bedroom with some bland food for dinner and a cocktail of pills, I find that Angelo is already awake. That saves me about five minutes. The power went out in town again today, this afternoon, and has not come back on since. A single candle sits on my nightstand, flickering wildly in the darkness. My patient's untamed gray hair glows like a halo in the flippant light. The brown kitten that has holed himself up in my room all day purrs at the feeling of a hand stroking his back and kneads at the teenage boy's lap with his socked paw.

"Qui sono le vostre droghe," I call (Here are all your drugs.) The air is thick and black at the outer edges of the room, and it gets lighter as it approaches the candle.

He laughs a little and once I cautiously walk all the way to the bedside he takes the tray from me. The pills and water are ingested without hesitation, and then he begins to eat the solid food.

Angelo Benedetto is nearly finished when I start to slowly creep out of the room. I set one foot behind me and carefully slide the other back, and repeat it a few times until he stops me. "Lo ho mancato ieri sera," he says (I missed you last night.)

My voice quivers slightly as I reply, "Realmente?" (Really?)

He nods. "Realmente fa molta differenza, avendolo qui." (It actually makes a lot of difference, having you here.) While using one hand to scratch Victor behind the ears he pushes the tray to the foot of the bed with the other.

Not knowing how to respond, I thank him modestly. I can feel my cheeks grow hot, my muscles weaken, and my heart, which has been quite active lately I must admit, pump faster.

A smile installs happiness in his ill, pale face. He turns his head downward and his gray-green eyes peer up at me past his hanging locks. Victor matches his actions. Honestly I can't tell who is cuter right now.

"Soggiorno con me stasera?" (Would you…stay with me tonight?) His tone is meek but sincere.

I blink and my shoulders fall. Oh, God, I like him so much! But if I stay the night with him again, who knows what will happen. But I have a fairly strong immune system, so as long he doesn't cough on me or anything like that I'll be fine. But, my grandfather…if he finds out, he'll probably banish Angelo from the house.

Alas, I cannot bring myself to resist his pleading expression. "Sì."

His neck straightens out; his eyes stay fastened on me; his smirk widens into a gracious grin. The cat lying beside him jumps when lightning crashes down from above and thunder shakes the foundation of the building. "E domani notte?" (And tomorrow night?)

I swallow hard and suck my lips in for a second before answering. "Sì." I mean it but I don't mean to say it. What am I doing?!

He is even more thrilled. "Ogni notte?" (Every night?)

A quiet gasp forces its way into my lungs. I am under the command of his gorgeous eyes, his irresistible voice, and his angelic and mysterious and dangerous demeanor. He really wants me to be with him. I want to be with him. But is this the right thing to do? I ponder this as the clock in the hall takes a century for the second-hand to move a single notch forward.

I close my eyes to hide myself from my own response and shake my head up and down. "Sì."

My patient's elated tone penetrates the sanctity of the blackness of the inside of my eyelids. "Oh, grazie, Luana! Lo avete reso così felice!" (Oh, thank you, Luana! You've made me so happy!)

One of my eyes open and I can make out a joyful grin imprinted on his mouth. I can tell from the two swirling gray-green pools near the top of his faces' reflection of the flame at the tip of the candle—which flares brighter and stronger than ever—that maybe he has the same feelings for me that I have for him.

0o.o0o.o0

This is night one of regularly joining Angelo Benedetto in sleep. Rather uninteresting so far, if you ask me.

He's been preoccupied with Victor, causing the cat's motor to permanently rumble. And now that I'm cozy under the covers next to him and dressed in some holey pajama pants and a T-shirt, I am catching up on some summer reading*. Surprisingly, ever since he's asked me to spend every night possible by his side, I haven't been all that shy around him.

"'_Voi anche? Sono dadi andanti, 'io ho ammesso. `È città di ritorno di fiamma. E lo ho 'ho cominciato dire il `un'emicrania, 'ma d'altra parte non ha voluto protestare o fare dirmi la zanna di vedere ancora un `del medico un desiderio in modo schiacciante di regolare tutti questi animali liberi.__'" _('_You too? I'm going nuts,' I admitted. 'It's flashback city. And I have—' I started to say 'a headache,' but then didn't want to complain or have Fang tell me to see a doctor again 'an overwhelming desire to set all these animals free.')_

"Che cosa siete che leggete?" Angelo asks, pulling me out of the pit of concentration that the book has created. (What're you reading?)

I look up at him. "_Giro Massimo_," I answer (_Maximum Ride_.) "Fabiana lo ha suggerito, in modo da lo ha prestato ieri sera a me. Ciò è che cosa sto leggendo il genere avanti/stop di tutto il giorno." (Fabiana recommended it, so she lent it to me last night. This is what I've been reading on and off kind of all day.)

The smile that has been present in his face ever since I agreed to his pleas enhances slightly. "Oh. Potrei vederlo realmente rapidamente?" (Oh. Could I see it really quick?)

Without pause I slide my bookmark into the page I am on, shut the book, and hand it to him. "Qui andante." (Here you go.) I'm situated closest to the candlelight, but I'm sure he'll be able to see just fine.

He flips the front cover and the first few pages back and looks at the first page of the prologue. He holds it closer to his face, squints his eyes, and even leans towards me to get better light, but all he can read is, "Congratulazioni." (Congratulations.)

I look at him quizzically, and he meets my gaze with a helpless expression. "Avete abbastanza luce?" I ask, concerned (Do you have enough light?)

"Sì, abbondanza. Ma le parole osservano tutti confusi." (Yeah, plenty. But the words look all blurry.)

When I was purging through the various objects in his suit jacket before, I came across a glasses case. I threw it away before even opening it since I thought it was just another place to hide that dynamite, which by the way I had completely forgotten about until now. But now that I think about it, it might actually have been glasses.

Smooth.

I timidly take the novel back from him. "Bene, allora, se volete leggerli…" a declaration with no thought, "Potrei leggerlo ad alta voce a voi."(Well, then, if you want to read it…I could read it aloud to you.)

He smiles to the side, both our eyes still on each other, as he replies, "Oh, no, ero solo curioso." (Oh, no, I was just curious.) In my head I try to picture him wearing something like my grandfather's reading glasses, and I can barely contain laughter until I remember that not all eyeglasses are the same size or style. Grandpa's would probably swallow Angelo's face whole.

"No, realmente," I offer (No, really.) Okay, now I'm shy. But I can't help it; I just want to be with him.

"Se dite così." (If you say so.) He aims for an indignant and unwilling tone but I can see right through it to his internal bliss.

I grin at him, open up the cover, flip to the first page of the prologue, and begin reading. "Congratulazioni. Il fatto che state leggendo questo significa che avete preso un passo da gigante più vicino alla sopravvivenza lavorare al vostro compleanno seguente. Sì, _voi_, levandosi in piedi là frondeggiante attraverso queste pagine. _Non metta questo libro giù_. Sono guasto la serio-vostra vita potrei dipendere da esso. Ciò è la mia storia, la storia della mia famiglia, ma potrebbe appena come facilmente essere la vostra storia anche. Siamo insieme tutti in questo; selo fidi di su quello. Non ho fatto mai qualcosa di simile, in modo da sto andando appena saltare dentro e provate a continuare." (Congratulations. The fact that you're reading this means you've taken one giant step closer to surviving till your next birthday. Yes, _you_, standing there leafing through these pages. _Do not put this book down_. I'm dead serious—your life could depend on it. This is my story, the story of my family, but it could just as easily be your story too. We're all in this together; trust me on that. I've never done anything like this, so I'm just going to jump in, and you try to keep up.)

Gray-green eyes are staring at me, mesmerized, and so are two dandelion yellow ones. I meet both pair for a minute. "Che cosa?" I ask (What?)

"Niente," Angelo replies in a dreamy way (Nothing.) Victor meows.

I continue, this time a little nervous.

A quick glance in the direction of the two boys barely quenches my anxiety a few paragraphs later, but he seems into the story, so I keep going. My voice unintentionally grows quicker, more dramatic, more urgent by the end.

I keep my focus on the book, itself, not particularly on a single passage, and flip to the next page with the last, ominous sentences of the prologue echoing in my mind. I open my mouth, about to recite the next words, when something stops me.

For the second time, Angelo Benedetto leans over me, removes the hair hanging over my forehead with a gentle caress, and earnestly and lovingly kisses the top of my head.

While this act of romance surprises me, I am thrown once again into a state of extrasensory pleasure. Tingles run along and through me. The purr of the cat and the echo of the lips smacking against the skin of my forehead ring in my ears. And all I can see is the handsome face and sinewy chest of my patient.

He pulls away from me a few inches, and we stare at each other awkwardly. For the second time today. I want to break the awkwardness, and also I want to return the message that I like him back.

I come forward slightly, kiss his cheek, lean up against his side, pull the covers up over both of us, and read some more. "Parte Una: Spavento della Moltitudine." (Part One: Flock Fright.)

0o.o0o.o0

***A/N: I do not own ****Maximum Ride: the Angel Experiment**** or anything related to it.**


	11. XI

**Carlile here!!!**

**I am really, truly, deeply, totally, sincerely, whatever other superlatives, SORRY for the delay. First, I was experiencing writer's block and had absolutely no idea how to end this chapter. Then my computer started running really slow. Then it started freezing up. Then it wouldn't even start at all. My parents took it to a computer repair place, my beautiful, green-colored, dying computer, where it stayed for a week and got a triple bypass, and the repair people figured out that it was a problem with the freaking awful Windows Vista. Now, I finally have it back, and I have finished this chapter, and I'm working on my new XP-Vista hybrid computer. **

**Also, I would like to let you readers know that I'm not doing the Italian translations anymore. I know that the majority of you like it, but it just takes too long. Maybe once I get more time, I'll add the translations, but right now I'm releasing this chapter and probably future chapters with no Italian.**

**Once again, I am sorry for the delay, and I hope you enjoy Chapter XI of Whirlwing, not your average doctor-patient relationship. I do not own Katekyo Hitman Reborn! or anything related to it. All I own is this computer and my cat.**

0o.o0o.o0

**( C H A P T E R . E L E V E N : . B E T T E R . O R . W O R S E ? )**

_Dear diary,_

_ I'm starting to think this is turning into one of those summer romances, which as fun as they supposedly are, it is not the right way to carry out my first ever romantic relationship. Today I have decided to gather all my willpower and not give in to Angelo, no matter how tempting he may be. So, now that we're presentable and such, I'm taking him to the town optometrist. He did wake up this morning without a fever, like he completely recovered overnight. Just like the electricity. And…the sun._

_ Yes, it's another rare sunny summer day in Celebrazione, Italia! It makes me want to sing and dance in joy. It's too bad I can't sing, and can't dance, and that I have to work this afternoon. _

_ Sincerely,  
Luana Diluca_

"Angelo! Are you ready to go?!" is my call into my bedroom. I peer down at the counter after setting down my pen but before closing my journal, and I find that Victor is playfully and adorably pawing at one of the pages freshly coated in ink. I watch him for a minute or so, mesmerized by his cuteness, deciding not to shut the book until he gets bored and forgetting to listen for my patient's response.

Last night, before we fell asleep, I told him I was revoking my last yes, and that last night and tonight would be the only guaranteed time we would spend together. I got nervous thinking about his last question, like it sounded too much like a marriage proposal of sorts. He was too tired and happy to be fazed by it. I hope he remembers, and at the same time that he doesn't remember.

Eventually I lift my gaze from my darling kitten and glance around the kitchen. My grandfather is rooting around in the refrigerator behind me. Angelo stands at the opposite end of the room, leaning against a column, twiddling his thumbs. Both of them are wearing slacks and T-shirts; the fact that my old-fashioned, old-aged grandfather has the same clothes as the suave and youthful Angelo Benedetto makes me laugh a little, calling both their attention to me.

A quick, rough stroke down my cat's back catches the young feline by surprise, but he continues attacking the open page in my diary after a few seconds. Then I make my way over to the silver-haired teenager, who apparently didn't even feel like trying today as his hair was pinned up.

"Angelo and I will be back, Grandpa," I say nonchalantly as I walk. "We're going to get him some glasses."

Damiano Diluca nods at me, replies bluntly, "I'll be in the clinic when you get back, so meet me there," and continues his hunt for…whatever he could possibly be able to harvest from the fridge.

Within a minute, my patient and I are out the front door and down the staircase. We make our way a few blocks to the east to the town optometrist, Dr. Colombo Fazzari, and the whole entire time, Angelo matches my pace from a few feet behind and stays quieter than a mouse. No conversation. No sensational hugs. Nothing. I fear that I may have hurt him in some way.

0o.o0o.o0

Upon entry to the optometry center, Dr. Fazzari greeted me, and so did his daughter, Cornelia, whom I babysit sometimes and will be entering kindergarten at summer's end. Then I introduced Angelo to the eye specialist and the two of them scurried immediately into the back room. They told me to claim a chair and make myself comfortable in the waiting room. It's been about five minutes.

My nose has been buried in an old magazine from years ago with the feature article pertaining to a hurricane that hit the United States and wreaked havoc on a city called New Orleans. Cornelia Fazzari sits next to me, reading a children's' magazine. She's such a cutie. Mrs. Tatiana Fazzari situated herself behind the reception desk out in the lobby practically seconds after Angelo and Colombo departed, and has since then been sifting through papers and stapling things relatively quietly.

A familiar and cheery voice breaks the wall of concentration I have encircled myself in. "Luana?"

On a quick reaction I lower the magazine onto my lap with a loud rustle, and when I look up I see Orlando Mattiazzi before me, wearing a big, beaming smile as always. His usual entourage of one, Giovanni, stands behind him stiffly, and his rather shady uncle, Gregorio, lurks in one of the corners of the waiting area. It's an unusual sight when Orlando sports his thick, darkly-framed eyeglasses, as he definitely prefers contacts, but I still recognize him right away.

"Oh, hi, Orlando!" I exclaim, automatically excited. Being in the presence of people like Orlando and Fabiana make me this way.

The redhead leans over me and grabs my hand in his gentle manner, holds it up to his mouth, and kisses it lightly. Then he sets it gently back down beside me. "How are you, darling?" All part of his normal greeting.

I grin widely. "Just fine." Cornelia starts humming a nursery song, like she wants to drown out the talking so she can read in peace. Told you she was a cutie.

Awesome!" he chuckles. "I'm here to get new contact lenses—as you can tell." He points to the device on the bridge of his nose make of plastic and glass. Then he turns around and nods to the sharply dressed Giovanni, who proceeds to walk up to the reception desk and talk with the rather plump Mrs. Fazzari. And Orlando resumes his conversation with me. "Why are you here? Does Damiano need new glasses? Or, God forbid, _your_ eyes have gone bad?"

"No. Angelo is," I reply.

The fairly dark-skinned teenage boy in front of me shows a countenance expressing both devious interest and jealous disappointment. "I see…" His left eyebrow rises, wrinkling the forehead of his round and flat face, and I can see his murky irises look me over within his large eyes.

I glance left, right, then left again, in a nervous way, and lean back to the point of hitting the back of my head against the windowpane, chuckling anxiously throughout the whole process. "Yeah," is my verbal response, though I am really starting to wonder what's running through his mind.

"How _is_ Angelo?" he asks. His words are drawn out in pronunciation, as if he's still thinking about them while he's speaking, so the word see fades quickly into the word how without stopping.

I can't quite put my finger on it, but something is strange about Orlando Mattiazzi today.

"He's doing fine," I answer. I'm trying to be as vague as possible. As much as I trust my second best friend, for the first time since I've met him I get the feeling he's up to something.

The redhead tilts his head up slightly, quickly. "All right."

There is a pause that spreads its coldness between us. He just stares at me. For a while, I stare back at him, too, but the gaze is so discomforting I pick my magazine up again. I'm unable to help looking over the top of the smooth and shiny periodical at him every once in a while. At one point I hear Giovanni's voice call out, but I've drowned everything out too much to know his exact words.

For a rather inexplicable reason, as soon as Angelo emerges from the back room, wearing a fresh, new pair of thin glasses, I can't wait to give the money to Tatiana and leave. And Orlando watches me until I'm out of his sight.

0o.o0o.o0

After walking back down the road, I pause at the end by an intersection: backwards is to Fazzari Optometry, a café, a florist, and the only place in town with a computer, the library; to the right would eventually lead to my home, the clinic; to the left, the Spano family's clothes shop, the Dimaggio jewelry store, and other businesses related to apparel and luxury; and directly in front of us looms the ominous town boneyard. While I stand in the middle of the empty brick road, unknowingly taking in the happily welcomed sunlight, I stare at the graves of my parents from outside the cemetery. Angelo wanders aimlessly and restlessly around me for a short time.

"Why did we stop?" The first thing he's said to me all day, and I can't even answer him. But his voice is enough to pull me out of my inexplicable trance. I peer back at him over my shoulder. He has a curious and concerned expression, and his hands are shoved deep into the pockets of the baggy pants he wears. Unfortunately, I can't get a good view of his gorgeous gray-green eyes because of the blinding glare coming off his brand new eyeglasses, although I'm sure he's using them to look at me.

I shrug and turn my head, and my hypnotized brown eyes focus now on the gate of the graveyard while I respond absentmindedly, "I don't know."

There is a secondary moment of inactivity before I hear the soles of his shoes hit the bricks beneath us. He comes next to me and stops. Angelo doesn't know what I'm staring at, but apparently he decides not to question or disturb me.

Though I don't see him with my eyes, I picture him in my mind, for something to occupy my empty brain with. I come to think of how enigmatic he really is, that all I know about him is what I've created. Just when I'm about to ponder what my true feelings are about him, I notice he and his shadow are halfway down the road to the right. Only one quick glance at his back immediately makes me chase down the street after him.

0o.o0o.o0

_(SPECIAL!!! Angelo Benedetto/Hayato Gokudera's POV!)_

Mothers always tell their children never to lie, and consequently those children end up as good people. My own mother, however, wasn't exactly fixated on keeping me from lying, and, also consequently, I'm rather ashamed of what I am. My true name, the one God, Himself unwillingly bestowed upon me, is Hayato Gokudera, not Angelo Benedetto. I'm 15 years of age, a high school student, and an Italian-Japanese hybrid, taking permanent residence in a tiny and messy apartment in a town in Japan with a lazy and perverted excuse for a father figure I can hardly say I idolize as much as I used to, but have to put up with, regardless. I suppose lots of people admire me, maybe for my piano playing, maybe for my good grades and ability to ace tests with no prior studying whatsoever, maybe for my athleticism, maybe because I can attract legions of girls and still have self-control. Not to sound conceited or anything—stop me if I do. But I get the feeling that most of those who admire me don't really know anything about me. To tell the truth, I'm a heartless thug, delinquent, killer-for-hire working directly under a mob boss. A constant sinner with constant guilt. I'm obsessive and reserved, smart and stupid, distinguished and pathetic, unfortunate and happy, lost and sure, and, yes, a liar, who regrets lying, but has no other option. I'm sorry, Luana. I'm sorry.


	12. XII

**Carlile, here. **

**Terribly sorry for the delay in getting this chapter out. I had a major test and project this week, along with some of that oh-so-lovable writer's block. But, regardless of the setbacks, here is chapter 12 of Whirlwing. Also, I would like to request 60 reviews total before I post chapter 13 :). I do not own Katekyo Hitman Reborn! or anything related to it, except for this fanfic, my computer, and my cat. **

0o.o0o.o0

**( C H A P T E R . T W E L V E : . A . F I N E . M E S S )**

_Dear diary,_

_I can__not__ believe my grandfather! Yesterday, as soon as Angelo and I were home, he shoved a clipboard at Angelo and told him that from now on he has to work to stay here. I was shocked and offended by this, but for some reason Angelo Benedetto was totally okay with it. He was silent and obedient. That was very puzzling._

_And as if yesterday wasn't awkward enough, last night we didn't speak to each other very much at all, and this morning I woke up after Angelo. I didn't even see him until I went to work in the clinic this morning! It's ten o'clock right now—I'm on a quick break writing this entry—and he hasn't even said three words to me._

_Of course I'm worried about him! I've been watching him when I can, and sometimes even when I shouldn't. I can't help it. I'm worried mostly if I broke his heart without knowing._

_Heh, listen to me, rambling on about Angelo. It's not like he couldn't possibly be doing the same thing about me, in his head, while he does all those odd jobs and runs errands for my grandfather, and occasionally deals with a patient or two. And then again, it's not like anything else is happening in my life that is nearly as exciting._

_Put up with me, please. _

_Sincerely,  
Luana Diluca_

As soon as I peer up from my diary, the dull brown eyes of my maternal grandfather beam right at mine. I frantically look down at my lap and shut the journal.

"Is my break over?" I mumble.

He doesn't listen. "What were you writing about?"

On one hand, I figure, Grandpa buys me a diary for my birthday every year. November sixth last year was when I got this diary, my 15-year-old diary, and November sixth next year is when I'll get my 16-year-old diary. It's been this way since I could write. So, in conclusion, the 60-year-old has a right to see what's inside. On the other hand, it's a freaking diary.

Wincing away from the doctor, I reply sheepishly, "Nothing."

"There sure was a lot of scribbling for nothing." His tone is rough and accusing.

It's already risky enough that Angelo, whose health seems to go from good to bad at any time, is working to stay with Dr. Damiano Diluca and me. If Grandpa finds out about my infatuation with my patient, though, he will most certainly be thrown out.

My chest decompresses and releases air in the form of a frustrated sigh. "Is my break over or not?" I grumble.

The elderly man stares at me for some time, in a way that suggests curiosity and impatience. Then, in final exasperation, he lowers his head, a highlighted spot upon his forehead, and shuts his eyes. In a calm manner, he says, "Luana, you've been rather insufferable lately." This is uttered while he nods.

Unable to come up with a response that won't make my eyes scream, I inhale deeply and stand up from the chair at the back of the room.

I suppose that Angelo's recent coldness towards me affects my attitude, that and the gathering clouds outside the clinic. But as I make my way to where my services are needed, I decide for myself that I want to address my patient about his recent coldness.

Mr. Luccido, a librarian, is my current mission. He's here for a routine checkup. For the third time this month. Yeah, he's obsessive-compulsive about his health.

Dealing with the hypochondriac is a usual thing and he knows me and my grandfather very well, but his obsession with his health makes me devote all my attention to him when he's in the clinic.

"Hello, again, Mr. Luccido," I smile. I feel like it's obvious my mind is not on him, but the silver-haired teenage boy who slept in my bed last night and is right now fiddling with some equipment in the stock area, which I can see since the door between the main clinic area and that large closet is wide open.

"Hi, Luana," he grins back, so happy that I'm here to see him and make sure nothing's wrong with him. "Sh-should I, um, take my temperature?"

On routine, I hand him a thin glass tube filled with red liquid that I had grabbed from a cart on the way to meet with the man. He takes it between his fingers and sticks it between his slightly parted lips, holding it inside his mouth with his teeth and his tongue overtop. Before leaving him, I pinch his shoulder gently, and I turn my body around.

Starting at that one instant, either the world speeds up or I slow down, but either way my feet shuffle across the floor at a snail's pace. It seems to take forever for me to close the distance between where I was and where I'm going. It reminds me of one of those movies in which, just before a major development in the plot or an exciting scene, everything is in slow motion.

Finally, I reach the doorway, lean up against the wooden post, and look on at Angelo standing facing away from me in the shelved room. He notices me staring at him right away, and when he turns around to look at me I can tell the world's slow-mo is over.

But he appears different. His skin is ghostly pale. He's sweating. When he lifts his hand slightly from his side, I can see it quivering as it holds a glass vile. His gray-green eyes water, not in a way of crying, but like there is something physically wrong.

For a moment, while I look at him, I forget my current attitude towards him, and my jaw drops open as my eyelids further remove themselves from my eyes. "A…Angelo…"

He grows paler and his expression suddenly seems frightened, disturbed, ominously shy. "Luana," he begins, his voice quiet and hoarse, "I—"

Before an instant can even be counted, his shoulders slouch, the gray-green irises roll into the back of his head, his chin lifts, and he collapses to the floor. The vile that was in his hand crashes down, too, and shatters into a million transparent slivers. Apparently, his other hand was on a shelf, close to some more glass instruments, and they come to the ground too, and by the time everything's dropped, Angelo is covered in blood and crystal shards. And I stand over him helplessly.

"Angelo!" I shout in concerned shock, immediately followed by a sobbing choke and my grandfather racing into the tiny room.

Right away, the 60-year-old man drops to his knees on the tile floor beneath us sprinkled with glass. He cautiously lifts the gunshot victim to an upright position and places two fingers under his jaw to check his pulse. "Well, he's not dead," he says.

The horror I feel radiates from me in palpable waves. My fingers cover my mouth. I take the tiniest step forward with my right foot and hear several minute crunching noises under the sole of my shoe. A small crowd of worried onlookers gather at the doorway, including Teresa, whom I had no idea had come in the first place.

As stiff as I am, I can't lean forward further than a few inches. I can't help but gaze at him in awe. This changes _everything_ that I had thought about today.

Grandpa glares at the people just outside the stockroom and barks, "Go away! Give us some space!" They all back away. Then, the elderly man brings him to a stand, and he brings him to me, dragging his limp feet along the floor powdered with glass flecks.

"He's your problem," he says roughly as he passes Angelo off to a mindlessly compliant me. I lay his arm across my shoulders and hold onto his hand on the other side. I can't exactly tell what I'm holding in, but it's some bitterly sentimental feeling exploding inside of me that's not allowed to come past my numb exterior, not now. My tears stop just as quickly as they started. In an unintentionally grand, dramatic manner, I turn slightly and step one foot at a time out into the clinic area.

I know all eyes are on me and the boy who is, to most people there, a stranger, yet I still work my way to the front door of the clinic area, beyond which lays a pathway saturated with rainwater that connects to the sidewalk, which only a few squares of later turns into another pathway that connects to the stairs that lead eventually to the residential second floor of the clinic building. I don't realize that the Alberti daughter has followed me out of the ground floor with an umbrella over my head until I find that I'm halfway up the stairs and I'm barely wet. I don't acknowledge her presence. I just keep going silently.

The three of us—Teresa, Angelo, and I—come to the landing at the top of the wrought iron steps. Numbly I take the keys out of my pocket and unlock the door. Numbly I put the keys back into the pouch at my side. Numbly I set my bloodsoaked hand on the doorknob and turn it. Numbly I kick the panel open. Numbly I come into the foyer area. Numbly I wait a few feet into the indoors for my next-door neighbor to shut her umbrella, come inside after me, and shut the door.

"What's wrong?" she asks. It's these moments of her kindness that makes Teresa Alberti a great friend, although her tone reflects some impatience and sarcasm as always. I see a basket handle running through her fist, and inside the straw container is a sweet-smelling mound of baked goods covered by a white cloth.

"I don't know," I answer solemnly. My vision goes back and forth between the unconscious, bloody boy at my side and the cynical, black-haired childhood friend before me for about a minute. Then I settle my sights on the girl with three older brothers and a deceased younger brother. She can read my flat, hypnotized expression.

"I was just here to give you some more of your beloved rolls, fresh from the oven. I know how you'll freak out if you don't get a steady flow of them." She smiles wryly, accompanied by an underlying air of concern for Angelo, and for me, hinted by a glint in her gold eyes. "That and I wanted to see Angelo conscious."

Unchanging in countenance, I respond, "I figured as much. You're so single-minded."

She seems barely offended by my truth. Then we go our separate ways through the apartment. Teresa brings the basket into the kitchen, placing it in the usual landing place for baskets of rolls by the small window on the counter, and she takes the previous roll-holder back home to the bakery with her. I can hear her open and shut the door when she departs.

As for me, I take Angelo to the bathroom next to my bedroom.

0o.o0o.o0

Being overly gentle with the concussed young man, I close the door after us when we come into the small room so susceptible to echoes. I bring him to the back wall and sit him down on the tile floor, back up against the wall. Once he's off of me, I find that I'm almost completely soaked in blood and water, and there is probably a trail of blood that has followed us between the clinic and here, and there is a puddle of red quickly growing under him.

Lacerations are visible all over the places on his body that clothes don't cover. I guess I should get to work, before he loses too much blood.

I hold the hem of his shirt between my thumb and forefinger and lift it slightly until it's as high as it can go before I have to lean him away from the wall a few inches, at which time I find the warm spot on the back of his head. There must be a bruise or something back there.

Eventually his top is removed, and not being in the mood to evaluate whether it should be thrown away or just washed I simply toss it to the other end of the bathroom. His gorgeously chiseled abdomen is now exposed, along with some flecks and lines of blood and that scar where the bullet entered his body almost two weeks ago. I grab a rag from the rack over the toilet and wet it under the bath faucet. After adding a little bit of soap, I wash the blood off of Angelo, picking some pieces of glass off of him in the process.

Then I grin minutely at him. I don't even care anymore that he's been acting weird. "You," I whisper to him, right in his ear like he can hear me, "are one disaster after another."

0o.o0o.o0

_The night before (and not to Luana's knowledge)… 3__rd__ person POV_

Damiano Diluca was born on January 17th 60 years ago. He has one older sister and one younger sister, both of which practice medicine in other parts of Italy. He married Graziana Corello, a childhood friend, at age 23. Damiano officially became a doctor when he was 26; when he was 29 and Graziana was 27, the two of them had their one and only daughter, Sabrina. Graziana died four years later after a dramatic fight with liver cancer, and as the result of losing her mother, Sabrina was already acting out. Damiano, at the age of 44, became a grandfather when his daughter, Sabrina, gave birth to Luana Diluca, unwedded. The father, Abele, was already deceased at the time. Teenage Sabrina perished in childbirth.

Now, the 60-year-old Celebrazione town doctor was facing a dilemma. It was similar to what happened to his own daughter, what was happening now to his granddaughter.

He dropped from his bed, startling himself in remembering what he was to do that night. He shuffled out of his bedroom and through part of his abode above the clinic he operated before he came to his granddaughter, Luana's, quarters. There in her bed, as he expected, was the aspiring nurse, fifteen years of age and fair as a goddess, and a newcomer to the Diluca home.

The newcomer had gray hair with natural black streaks underneath and pale green eyes that at one moment showed a brilliant, compassionate sparkle and the next could convey a cold and callous feeling. He had an elegantly handsome face that with no matter what expression gave him a permanently profound and concentrated look. His story was a mystery, his background an enigma, and his health was fluctuating.

The elderly practitioner stopped himself a few feet from his nurse's bedside and glared with twisting thoughts at the newcomer, who, at no less than a year different in age from his granddaughter, was prone on the bed beside Luana.

Finally, after a fruitless attempt to analyze the gunshot victim in the dark, Damiano whispered loudly and hoarsely to him, "Are you awake, Angelo?"

It was close to midnight, so the air in the room was pitch black, dissimilar from the starlit sky outside that was blocked by a thick curtain over the window at the back. "If I wasn't, would I be able to respond?"

Damiano groaned on the inside and gritted his teeth as he tried to bottle up calling him a smartass. He released the fury with a quick sigh, and then he took a step forward. When his body stood completely vertical once again, he noticed that Angelo was sitting up in bed. The two stared at each other through the darkness for only God knew how long.

Finally, the grandfather said tightly, "Did I wake you?"

"No," the silver-haired teenager replied breathily, "I couldn't sleep, anyway."

That was the answer the doctor had both dreaded and hoped for, as this was a premeditated encounter with the stranger slowly wooing his granddaughter. "Then, would you like to walk with me for a while?" Damiano had been itching to talk to Angelo for the longest time regarding some things Luana could not hear.

Shrugging, the exclusive patient of Damiano's grandchild retorted in a nonchalant manner, "Sure."

Angelo Benedetto reared up from the bed, extra cautious not to disturb the aspiring nurse beside him, and appareled himself in a light jacket to cover his bare chest before the two men set out into the natural darkness that fogged around the ground, and the luminescent little white speckles scattered throughout the sky above.

"I'll be blunt," began the old man. "Why do you have such a vested interest in my granddaughter, Angelo Benedetto, if that is your real name?"

The pace slowed at the uttering of that question, showing that both of them were thinking. Angelo was pondering a response that wouldn't offend or scare Dr. Diluca. Dr. Diluca was thinking of ways to be offended or scared at Angelo's pondered response.

Finally, the teenager shrugged again. "I don't know."

Frustrated that the patient apparently wasn't seeing the point, Damiano reiterated. "I mean, what is it about her that's making you behave this way?"

Only a little thought went into the teen's response. "I like how she always shuts her left eye when she yawns. I think that's adorable."

Not anything close to what the 60-year-old expected. "What else?"

"Well, she has awesome hair, and I like her voice. You ever heard her sing?"

Damiano nodded before realizing what Angelo's inquiry even meant.

"Yeah, I can hear her singing all the time, kind of quietly, but she's really good." There was a special type of silence between them for a minute or so. The thinking type of silent aura emanated from Angelo, and it collided with Damiano's thoughts, too, of his fears. The doctor feared that Angelo had learned more about his granddaughter in a little over a week than he had in all those 15 years of watching her grow from a babbling infant to a charming teenage nurse-in-training. He barely noticed Angelo was speaking again when the young man sauntering beside him added, "I guess there's just something about her that gives her…gravity. That's the only word I can think of right now, gravity. You can tell right from first seeing her that she's something special, and you can't help but want to be around her."

The old man went on this thought with his own and came to an agreeable conclusion. He tried to imagine himself in Angelo's position and it made sense. But he still had more interrogation to do.

"Is there anything you don't particularly like about Luana?" the grandfather asked.

To answer this question, the teenage boy had to do very little processing. "Not really, but there is one thing that's a little iffy for me about her. It's an understandable thing, still notable, and to tell you the truth it's the only point she has that's a turnoff to me."

The secret message the gunshot victim conveyed was evident to the senior citizen: he was attracted to Luana Diluca, at the very least. His eyebrows uncontrollably raised in intrigue at this secured inference. "And that is?"

Angelo half-spoke, half-sighed the first word of his response. "When someone is truly happy, they'll smile, and you know that smile is genuine. When someone is truly upset, they'll cry, and you can tell their tears really mean something. But Luana's different. She's very…she can't…" he stumbled over his words, "You can't feel any sincerity behind her expressions. Then again, I suppose that's a standard thing for you doctors and nurses and people of the medical sort. Others think you're compassionate because you save lives, but you really aren't, because after a while nothing surprises you anymore. You become numb from experience. Luana's been nursing her whole life, I guess, so that's why she's so callous towards everything at such a young age."

Little did Angelo Benedetto know that Dr. Damiano Diluca was testing him. The elderly medical specialist had a similar walk-chat with Luana's father, Abele, when word had first got out about Sabrina's being with child. Abele Velona was different from Angelo Benedetto, was the realization he had reached before Angelo had even opened his mouth at the beginning of the stroll.

Abele was 12 years Sabrina's senior, and it was obvious he had been around the block quite a bit when it came to women. Damiano had never once heard Abele refer to Sabrina in such a deep, emotionally sensitive way as Angelo did; all Abele Velona ever talked about was Sabrina's looks, and when Damiano questioned him about whether Abele liked Sabrina's personality he would instead reply with 'she's a fox' or 'she's the shiz.' Although Sabrina could be summed up that way by most people that knew her, Damiano knew that his daughter had far more dimension to her than Abele's play toy. Angelo respected Luana, he could tell, and he was exponentially more likable than Luana's father.

The doctor was no idiot, though. He had information on Angelo that Angelo wouldn't so much have preferred him to have. Damiano knew the type. He was hiding a lot. Secrets pertaining to this newcomer and some other related topics polluted his already tired mind so thoroughly.

By the time the Celebrazione, Italy town doctor had finished mulling over Angelo's profound statements, the pace had quickened, and they had turned around and started back toward the clinic where Luana and Damiano Diluca resided, and where Angelo Benedetto was currently staying.

The medical professional had an epiphany. He was highly suspicious of his granddaughter's patient and people of his sort, but at the same time he had, for some reason completely ridiculously to him, trust in the teenage boy. Could he trust him with the things he already might have known? These were the things proposed in his head, and locked up in there, until finally they flowed into his mouth. His lips opened and the words had voice applied to them. They were only half-thought words, but they had a certain meaning, and they all came together in one sentence.

"You know, Luana's father, Abele, used to be a drug dealer for an ally of the Vongola Family."

That little tidbit of information, emitted in such a monotone and calm manner, was all it took to spark something between the two men. The revelation of Damiano's information somehow didn't startle Angelo Benedetto, as he had been faking amnesia for the entire time that he had been under Luana's care and had one whole week ago concocted a way to defend himself against people lacking in ignorance.

Still, the silver-haired youth eyed the elderly man in a way that didn't convey fear at all, but curiosity. The speed of trekking down the brick road had slowed drastically. The pale green orbs belonging to the gunshot victim pierced the dark, smoky air enshrouding them. He immediately deduced the point that Damiano was trying to get across: one slip up from the patient that was anything similar to that scumbag, Abele Velona, and he was banned from ever even thinking of Luana Diluca again. Damiano had lost his daughter. He was not going to lose his granddaughter.

Dr. Diluca figured now that he had let out what was festering in his mind so ferociously, it was okay to be open with the fellow. He continued along with the subject.

"He never used the drugs, himself. He just sold them. My daughter, Sabrina, wasn't one of his clients, but they met another way. Almost the same way you came to meet Luana, in fact. Except Luana has much more innocence. I'll bet you can tell."

Now a tad anxious, the not-so-much-of-a-stranger-anymore cocked his head, signaling for the old man to keep relaying information.

Right when Angelo heard the name Abele Velona, he knew who that man was. The two had never met as Abele's life came to an end about three weeks before Angelo was born, but that late man was notorious for many things in Italy's underworld. But even so, the gray-green-eyed young man had no idea the sweet, innocent, brilliant Luana Diluca was his daughter.

Slightly switching the subject he was on, Damiano uttered his next set of sentences. "Yes, Hayato Gokudera, I know who you are. I figured it out from the first moment I saw you. I know your past, what happened between you and your sister, what happened between you and your father, what happened between your father and your mother. I know what you do. I know who you are associated with. I, myself, work for the Vongola. It's a minor job, so you probably haven't heard of me, but I'm the one who keeps tabs on the Mattiazzi Family. I have most certainly heard of you, and all the things you've done: you're the current boss's right-hand man, you fought against Prince Belphegor the Ripper for the Vongola Ring of the Storm, and I even know of you and your friends' adventures in the future."

Angelo froze. He figured as much as the medical doctor being suspicious of him, but he never thought the old man would have this much dirt on him. His thoughts in particular were what paralyzed him momentarily, and a rather hopeless response had been conjured up at last after a deep gasp and groan. "She's not my sister. She's my half-sister." In reference to Damiano's statement.

The doctor grinned—he couldn't help it. Now that he had gotten the fact that he wasn't just some random, senile old man off his chest he felt a lot better. "When your family is as messed up as it is, does it really matter?"


	13. XIII

**Carlile, here.**

**Well, here it is, chapter thirteen of Whirlwing! The usual request of at least five reviews for this chapter is in order; also I would like to say I do not own Katekyo Hitman Reborn! or anything related to it, and that all I own is my computer and my cat. **

**Oh! There was no Victor last chapter! No wonder it felt a little weird TT_TT Oh well.**

**BTW, about the reviews: I'm letting this slide just this once, mostly because there are 58 reviews right now, and since it's really close to 60, anyway. Actually, I'm deciding to lower my quota to three reviews per chap, although this chap will need 5 (meaning for my next update I will want 63 reviews total, but from now on I'll be requesting 3.) Better?**

**Personally I'm very excited about this chapter. You'll see why. (: Enjoy**

0o.o0o.o0

**( C H A P T E R . T H I R T E E N : . E X P E R I E N C E )**

_Dear diary,_

_This would be the first time in almost two weeks that I have written at my actual desk. It's Angelo's turn to sleep on the couch. I'm sure he and his unconscious self won't mind. Regardless, I feel sorry for him, and I'm still trying to figure out what happened to him, exactly. I patched up his wounds, put him in a safe place, and I'm trying every now and then to break his new fever. What am I doing wrong? What did I do wrong?_

_Sincerely,  
Luana Diluca_

Storms are still pounding the Lake Como area relentlessly. The rain is breathing, a soft, whispering, breath, accompanied by the dramatic gasping of wind. Lightning and thunder so desperately want to join in the respiration but are bound by the turbulent and fleeting clouds. White mist hangs low over the ground in poufs, flares, swirls. That cheerful sun is hidden. These are my observations as I stare with interest out my bedroom window while leaning the chair back.

Once again, Celebrazione citizens find themselves without electricity. Ah, the joys of Italian summers.

My relatively peaceful thoughts come to a close when Victor leaps up onto my lap. The feline slept in the living room last night with Angelo. It's like Victor has more caring instincts than I, always watching over my high-priority patient. He's a tiny, soft, brown-colored reminder that I have to try and break Angelo's fever again.

I stay seated at my desk for a few more anxious minutes, at first stroking my pet patiently but soon pressing down on his back with significant force. Eventually my furry baby has had enough distracted love and leaves me. Those four dainty little paws step lively on the floor, his tail swishes back and forth, and he keeps his head held high and ears back as I push the chair out, dismount, push the seat back underneath the small table, and close the covers of my journal in the process.

On the way to the living room where my medical services are needed, I stop by the bathroom, as usual. I quickly grab one, two, three white rags from the shelves and carry them carelessly to the sink, where I thoroughly soak them with cold water only to wring them out upon completion, over and over, one by one.

At the end of the towel-wetting, I catch a quick glance at the mirror on the wall over the basin just before departing. Of course I'm expressing an empty, tired, routine look, but that's not what the mirror says back.

In the reflective glass before me, there I am, but there's something different. A giant grin corrupts all my features, my hair is cut and straight and fanning out at the tips, and I'm wearing a different outfit. But, above all, my eyes are not the same chocolate brown hue—they're pure, glowing white.

For a long while I glare bewildered at my dissimilar reflection. Who is that? Is that…me? No, I don't look like that. But that's my face. Unmistakably.

I rigidly bend my elbow and raise my arm, spreading my fingers and palm and setting my whole hand on the smooth surface. It's just a mirror. A puzzled and nervous expression crosses my face, especially when the head of my reflection rears slightly and the mouth opens wide. Laughter faintly echoes around me, the kind that brings chills, the kind that comes from those who suffer from insanity, the kind that one hears before they suffer from those who suffer from insanity. I retract my hand, quickly snapping it back up against my chest. My strange reflection raises her eyebrows just a tad, clenches her teeth once again while keeping her lips back, and lowers her chin back to normal. My eyes are fixated on her—on me. Her—my—hair blows back ever so slightly.

This is so weird!

With my other hand I set two fingers on my lips, and then proceed to carefully scan my entire face by touch, since at the moment I don't trust my eyes. No, I'm not smiling. I still have the same long, curly hair as always. I'm still wearing a simple, informal brown dress; nothing like the thin red halter my reflection sports. As for my eyes, I can't confirm whether or not they're glowing, but I'm 99% sure that's impossible.

All this time, coils and wisps of dark white fog have swirled around behind my reflection, only now seeping out of the mirror to enshroud me in a mist. The thick air caresses me, wraps around me, traps me in a discomforting but strangely entrancing place so much unlike the bathroom. A land of smoke, smoking ruins, smoking carnage, stones, broken buildings. I don't realize I've been floating until I touch down on the ground covered in ash and burns. Immediately my feet and ankles are pelted with black dust blown up from a wind sweeping around the ground and causing the fog to whirl about. My reflection hovers a few inches up, staring at me as always with that evil expression.

"Luana." The wind whispers around me, in my voice, not emitted by me or my reflection. I'm too petrified from anxiety and fright to respond. What is this strange place? Is this really me I'm talking to? Why am I here? Is there something wrong with me?

"Luana." It repeats, louder, surrounding me more thoroughly, piercing through me, making me shudder. "Luana, stay by the storm."

All this confusion, all this fear, this deep feeling, pulsating through my body almost in a painful way, and all I can muster to respond is a quiet, "What?"

"Luana, stay by the storm. The storm will be your support. The storm will guide you. And you will complete the storm."

A harsh breeze whips my hair and dress to the side. "Th-the…storm…?" I whisper. The way my lips tingle when I say it gives me chills. I get the feeling that all this odd environment and this unusual reflection and the voice from everywhere is trying to brainwash me, and I know I should try to resist, but for some reason I listen, and I like it.

It all ends so suddenly right afterwards when I literally pop back into the bathroom. Instantly my eyes meet the mirror, and to my relief I see myself, my real self, looking back at me. The mist in the mirror and the room is gone. The smoking ruins stone and buildings have been replaced by the simple tiles on the floor that I stand firmly on and the wallpaper on the walls. I feel a little dizzy and step backwards once for leverage.

That literally hurt my head. What just happened?

So many questions with no answers at all barrage my brain for moments on end, making me lightheaded and jittery. My body is holding back vertigo because I don't want to go anywhere else strange.

My thoughts are collected after a while, and I'm ready to go see Angelo, but before I leave the bathroom I notice the rags I hold have interesting black stains on them.

0o.o0o.o0

The living room, as it mostly has naturally lit, is scantly lit now, but to me it seems that the silver-haired teenage boy on the sofa glows. Maybe it's because of my associating him with an angel?

The new rags in my hands, watered down and without the black blemishes, are folded neatly and laid upon Angelo's forehead, line his neck, and blanket his bare chest. Sympathy is my intended expression as I perform this task, as it always has been.

My hands are empty and I am through with the temporary treatment, but I stay knelt on the floor before the couch, gazing at the slumbering stranger.

Only when he sleeps does he truly look to be at peace. His eyebrows are relaxed; his eyelids loosely cover the gray-green irises beneath; the corners of his mouth are straight while his lips are pressed together in a leisurely way. His silver hair creates a luxurious cushion under his limp head, and his pale skin is smooth to the touch when I place my hand gingerly on his jawline, stroking my thumb against his cheek. His serenity brings me to wonder what he could be dreaming about, if anything.

I notice immediately when his eyelashes slowly and minutely begin to flutter open, coming apart ever so slightly so his gorgeous gray-green eyes can peek out at me.

In a natural manner I remove my hand from his face, trying to act casual, trying not to hint that I think I like him in a romantic way. I meet his gaze. "Angelo…you're awake," I whisper with an unintentional tone of awe.

His mouth upturns modestly in a pleased smirk. A moment later, his eyes are still barely open. "Hey," he murmurs.

I stare at him for what seems like forever, hanging over him, mentally grabbing him and hugging him and burying my head in his neck. I probably have an awkwardly content countenance. It's not until a short while of the two of us just staring has passed before I realize that he's my patient and I'm his nurse.

"Um," I stammer in a hushed voice, "How do you feel?"

"Okay," he replies. We're so quiet in here, in the dark stillness, protected from the explosions of thunder and the pelting of rain right outside these walls and roof. "I'm a little lightheaded, and a little cold, but I can manage."

Removing the strands of hair obstructing my face by tucking them back behind my ears, I grin shyly at the angel twice blessed and put a little relieved voice into my next exhalation. "Do you know what happened?"

His half-conscious tone of voice and facial expression don't help at all in my attempting to resist him. That smile is the cutest, despite its slightness. And those eyes of his have a way of entrancing me.

"Honestly, no," Angelo admits. "Who knows? Maybe I'm allergic to something here?"

More relieved exhalations come from me, to the number of two or three. I shut my eyes for a few seconds and open them again to find my patient's eyes just a tad bit wider. "You just get well, okay?" I say, more in an advising way than anything.

An almost undetectable nod is his response. I have no perception of the close proximity of our faces until I begin to pull away from him. Before my departure from the living room, I flash him a quick grin, set both my palms flat on the floor, and push myself into an upright position. Starting with my left foot, I walk away, one step at a time. Once again, the storm overcomes its distance from me and affects my mood, currently bringing darkness into perspective.

I'm approximately halfway to the kitchen when I hear footsteps, quick footsteps, pounding footsteps, and a call out to me. "Luana! Hold on!"

I pause; my feet brought together, and look emptily at the wall in front of me, and in gradual steps turn around to see the silver-haired mystery-patient coming fast at me, ghostly pale and panting somewhat. In less than a second after I spot him, he's standing inches away from me. He thrusts his head forward toward mine, chin-first, tilting his head, and pushes his lips against mine. My eyes slam shut in an instant.

Our mouths interlocked, he lifts his hand up and sets it slightly clenched on the side of my face. Just as soon as our two pairs of lips retract, they reconnect, emitting a quiet smacking sound. I raise my arms up, sliding them up his chiseled abdomen, eventually placing them on his shoulders, wrapping the limbs loosely around his neck, admiring the smoothness and warmth of his skin and noting all those cold rags are off of him. In response, his other hand, clenched a bit, comes gently up to the other side of my face. I'm holding him, he's holding me. A second time our mouths come away from each other, another smacking sound snaps out, and they open wider for a third coming together. He's panting from the running through a few rooms and his exhaustion, and his heart's beating fast, making my muffled breath and tired heartbeat hard and quick.

We hold onto one another tightly, for if we let go this beautiful moment will die, and our relationship will return to only doctor-patient, and our moods will drop back to gray, and nothing this close to pure happiness may ever be experienced by us again. But all things have to come to an end.

To my passionate disappointment, the third time we separate, he takes his head back just out of my effortless reach, while we continue to hold each other. My eyes, with accumulated wetness, open, a pleading glint radiating from them, screaming without words, "Why did we stop?"

His eyes, however, as much pleasure as they express, they are just as apologetic. "I'm sorry, Luana," he whimpers, his labored breath tickling my muzzle, "I just couldn't wait anymore."

I release a drawn-out sigh through the nose as a smile sweeps across my tingling lips. My brown eyes look straight into his gray-green eyes. Out of my peripheral vision I can see he's grinning, too.

"It's okay," I whisper voicelessly. Then I lean forward only a little and gently peck him on the cheek.

Before I can even calculate how we leave each other, we leave each other. He slinks back into the living room—slinking with confidence—and I stand in the room staring blankly at where he used to be until he's out of my sight. When he's gone, I bolt into the kitchen, slamming the backside of my body with all my force onto the wall. I touch two fingers to my mouth, for the second time today, only this time I _am_ smiling.

Oh my God. My first kiss. My first kiss, with Angelo.

0o.o0o.o0

_Back in Namimori, Japan…(3__rd__ person POV, of course not to Luana's knowledge, and the dialogue is in Japanese)_

Tsuna Sawada, only a teenager and already the boss of the highly regarded Vongola Family, is feeling down. For the past two days, he has not slept, he has eaten nothing but junk food—in fact, he has scarcely left his chair in the living room of his home. Papers litter the floor and coffee table. His bloodshot eyes are cradled by dark spots. Even his large, upright brown hair is starting to sag.

Why? What has happened, here?

This low-profile high school student has been working tirelessly for days on end—almost a week, actually—to find his thoroughly missed right-hand man, Hayato Gokudera.

Yes, Gokudera. Fairly long silver hair, gray-green eyes, pale skin, chain-smoker, idol to all his fellow students and living nightmare to all his teachers, Vongola Storm Guardian, assassin, and best friend and right-hand man of Tsuna.

Tsuna's the one that has been working on this searching project as a whole. Others have helped, too, at times. Lambo was quick to offer his services, as he has come to admire and respect Gokudera deeply and, as the Vongola Lightning Guardian, is his metaphorical brother. Takeshi Yamamoto, Vongola Rain Guardian and also good friend to Hayato Gokudera, has done all he can. Even Bianchi, Gokudera's older half-sister, Dr. Shamal, whom Gokudera has been living with in an apartment in downtown Namimori (a father-son type of relationship), and Dino, one of the last people to have seen Gokudera before he indefinitely disappeared 13 days prior, have pitched in. But right now, the Tenth-Generation boss of the Vongola is working alone. So many days of stress and exhaustion have given him irritability and turned his brain to mush. However, he refuses to give up on his loyal subordinate.

Vongola Decimo sits slouched now, papers in hand, with drooping eyes. His body is screaming at him to give in to sleep, but his mind is too restless. The conflict is externally represented by his head bobbing up and down.

The light hurts him, and the dark hinders him. Never before has this chair seemed so uncomfortable. Never before has he ached for both his bed and his right-hand man back home safely.

He grunts. Reborn, lying down fully conscious on the floor at the other side of the living room, is currently his only witness.

"Reborn?" inquires a voice from behind the corner, "Tsuna?"

The dark-haired infant sits up and Tsunayoshi 'Tsuna' Sawada perks up and peers lazily over the back of his recliner. Bianchi enters the room, wearing the typical clothes for sleeping, her pink hair flat and lifeless. There are bags under her eyes, too, which pains Tsuna as they so closely resemble her half-brother's, with the gray-green color and the full and long eyelashes. The rest of her face reminds one of Hayato Gokudera, as well, having the pale complexion and thick lips.

"What is it, Bianchi?" the baby hitman asks.

'Poison Scorpion' Bianchi holds up two leaves of paper. "I was checking my email for the first time in awhile and, um, I found something kind of interesting."

Tsuna is too tired to comprehend, let alone react, but Reborn raises his eyebrows. "Let's see it," he requests.

The woman with the scorpion tattoo walks breezily to her lover and hands him the papers. While the baby's dark eyes scan the print, Bianchi explains her discovery to her groggy boss. "There's a guy who lives on Lake Como by the name of Dr. Damiano Diluca. He monitors one of our allies, the Mattiazzi Family, for us, and sends us email updates once a week or so."

"Mm," the brown-haired Sky Guardian moans with sudden interest.

When the pink-haired assassin nods, the Arcobaleno holding the yellow pacifier reads the email. "Wednesday, Fourth of June, 20XX. A Vongola member was shot by a Mattiazzi member on Sunday. Swift action shall be taken. The Vongola member is in fairly stable condition."

Tsuna is so excited about this information, he leaps out of the chair, completely eradicating his exhaustion. "Is it Gokudera-kun?" his voice is loud with anxiety.

Bianchi puts her finger to her lips. "Maman, Lambo, I-Pin, and Futa are asleep, remember."

"Doesn't say," Reborn answers. "It has no mention of the Vongola member that was shot in the other email, either. But, still. This is a huge development. Thank you, Bianchi." The baby clears a spot on the corner of the coffee table and sets the papers down there.

The female assassin blushes. "Thank _you_, Reborn."

Tsuna, eyebrows poised, grins widely in joy. "That could be Gokudera-kun! We may have found Gokudera-kun!" He jumps up and down, laughing victoriously. "Yes!"

"Hold on, Tsuna," the fedora-wearing child scolds. His apprentice freezes, hands in the air. "According to my summer bugs, there have been 37 Vongola members in the Lake Como area in the past month. For all we know, it could just be someone else. Maybe Gokudera is alive somewhere. Maybe he's been killed, chopped up into pieces, and put in garbage bags."

"The latter possibility is so pleasant…" Tsuna whimpers to himself sarcastically. Then he lowers his hands. "Reborn, you ruined the moment."

Because of her cruel sense of humor, Bianchi can't help but smirk at Reborn's exaggerating. She picks him up off the floor and holds him close to her chest. "At any rate," she sighs, "Tsuna, you've put in a really productive two days. It's almost midnight. You should get some sleep." Without another word, she goes back to bed, Reborn in her arms. The shutting of her bedroom door isn't audible.

The Vongola Sky Guardian, beaming again, jumps up and clicks his heels. "Gokudera-kun," he shouts happily, aloud, "We're one step closer to getting you back home!" He brings himself to his own bed and stares at the ceiling for several hours before finally fading into some much-needed sleep.


	14. XIV

**Carlile, here, hey!**

**I'm in love with Colonello and Lal Mirch as a couple, hey! I think they're my favorite hetero couple in the series that isn't canon, hey! Even though they are kinda canon, hey! …I'll stop that, now. Anyway, yeah, I have a ColoLal oneshot written that I'm planning on continuing, so if you like the couple, be on the lookout for when I finally write chapter two of "Souldier" (:**

**Also, it's official! After "Whirlwing" is done, a HibarixTeresa sequel will be written, entitled "Whirlwing II"! The outline of it is written, so it stays. Look out for that, too, when this fanfic is over, if you like Hibari and tolerate my crazy OC, Teresa. And please don't flame me if it's a little OOC—it's at least a year after the future arc, so people are changed, plus, in my defense, it is DIFFICULT to write Hibari love, especially with an OC.**

**I've changed the setting of this a little bit: it's been four months since they've returned from the future. Sorry for any confusion, whether it is in the setting or from the last chapter. To clarify and review the contents of chapter 13, three major things happened: 1) Luana had a strange vision (which—spoiler!—pertains to what will become of her), 2) Angelo and Luana kissed for the first time, and 3) Tsuna and the others are a little closer to getting Gokudera back home. And now, here's chapter fourteen of "Whirlwing". :D**

**PS: Also, sorry about the delay. I was totally **_**swamped**_** by homework last week and this week, so I didn't have much time to work on this. Plus I was facing a little bit of writer's block, especially since I couldn't think of a plot for chapter 15 until just 2/11. In fact, I mapped out the rest of this fanfic: if I stick with the plan, it should last 23 chapters! So, yeah. Sorry, again. **

0o.o0o.o0

**( C H A P T E R . F O U R T E E N : . I T ' S . O F F I C I A L )**

_Dearest diary!_

_A whole nig—agh! I can't write!_

_(hyperventilating)_

_My hand is shaking; I'm ready to explode! I am still freaking out that Angelo kissed me. YOU HEARD RIGHT, WORLD! ANGELO BENEDETTO KISSED ME YESTERDAY! MY FIRST KISS! AND I LOVED EVERY SECOND OF IT!_

_Gah, I can't write worth shit today—excuse my French!—so I'm just going to resist the urge to tear my hair out from extreme happiness for the rest of the day. Don't quite know why I want to mutilate myself when I'm happy, but I feel that way right now!_

_So! Many! Exclamation! Marks! Ah!_

_Warmest regards,  
Luana Diluca_

When the final "a" in my name is printed onto the paper with my favorite blue ballpoint pen, I drag the stem at the right out far across the sheet, making an unruly azure line streak along my piece. My arm muscles tighten, spasm, weakening my fingers significantly and letting the writing utensil drop onto the desk in my room with a slight noise. Everything's both numb and extrasensory now: I can feel my heart pounding in my chest and my lungs and diaphragm expanding and contracting heavily, the thunder outside my window deafening me, the lightning blinding me, and still the taste of Angelo's supple lips on mine, a strangely arousing choking sensation deep in my throat, my clothes suddenly feel so heavy, and my mind is wracked to the point that I can't function. There is one thing and one thing only evident to me right now:

I want to and I will kiss Angelo again, if it's the last thing I do.

Now that his feelings for me have been almost confirmed to be similar to my feelings for him, I wonder about what it is we should do about it. What _I _should do about it, specifically, since as much control as I have over my mystery-but-boy-is-he-a-good-kisser-patient I can't manipulate him completely. The whole experience of the past two weeks has been wrought with firsts in my life: the first person I've ever operated on all by myself, the first patient that I have taken sole responsibility for and nobody else, the first person to share a bed with me since I was a toddler slumbering each night beside my grandfather—ah, Dr. Damiano Diluca probably doesn't know of what has transpired that has made me so insufferably and incessantly insane—first person of the opposite sex that I have possessed romantic feelings toward, and the first boy I've _kissed_! I still can't get over that.

I harness extra effort to push the chair I sit in out from under the desk in order to free my legs, swing my limbs over the side, spring to my feet while feeling the rush of stagnant air whip my face and hair, and without pushing the old dining chair back into its solitary position or closing my diary to ensure as much privacy as those with integrity can provide, I walk slowly toward the mirror on the back of my bedroom door for what has to be the millionth time since I awoke two hours previously.

The olive skin covering my body is stained pink on my cheeks, as it has been for almost the entire 120 minutes I have been conscious. Almost right after I catch my image in the reflective glass, I picture the me reflected back as Angelo, the romantic, sweet, handsome, enigmatic amnesiac that came into my life two weeks ago and has changed everything since. His appearance in my mind makes me blush even harder, fulfilling the pink splotches on my face and making them a vibrant red, sweat soaking my body, my eyelids fluttering flirtatiously, and the circulatory organ in my chest pulsate louder and harder. Ah! I can honestly say I've never felt this way before about anybody; and, who's to say I'll ever feel so again? I manage to form a sheepish smile at his image. I feel as though my lips are circling all the way around my face, just like my thoughts and emotions swirl about in my head.

In an instant I flip around, my back to the reflective glass, and while I recover from my self-induced embarrassment I can almost hear a sizzling sound coming from my cheeks as they cool off back into a calmer pink hue. I gasp and sigh nasally, raising and lowering my shoulders corresponding to my breath. My hands float subconsciously up to my face and the tips of my fingers gently touch the sides. Another inhalation and exhalation, another shrug. My body is trying to pacify my mind while my mind is tries to overpower my body—it's a clash between a want and necessity; conflicts equally pressing, inside me. My mind, my fried, numb, sensitive mind as turbulent as the relentless storm outside has been overtaken by my emotions and the first time in my life I've wanted and had the opportunity for romance, which is an exciting state but alien to me. It longs desperately for my body to comply with its command, _run_, _now_, _go to him_. My rational side, my 15-year-old body, expressing me as a teenage nurse who must compassionately save the lives of those in need without emotion, wants the brain inside it to think things through, cool down, possibly realize something or remember something. My head, thinking through my lips, thirsts for Angelo Benedetto as I have not seen him since that fateful experience the day before; my body, more like a corpse that happens to beat and breathe, feel everything and feel absolutely nothing at all, has compelled me so far to stay pure-lipped, at the risk of my sanity.

"Mao!"

A shrill call in a language completely incomprehensible to me causes me to jump and the ringing in my ears to ebb away. Once again I turn around rapidly, my hair whipping against me and stinging me from the anxious speed. Foolishly, I look right away for Angelo, but my body rationalizes my mind for a second for me to figure out that the little brown feline at my feet, gazing up at me with curious marigold-colored eyes, is the source of the sound.

Blushing, regardless, I grin once again, down at my beloved pet. "Hi, Victor," I say shakily, in an involuntarily sugary and high-pitched tone. I bend at the hips and knees, straighten my elbows, extend my arms, and cup both my hands around the small cat's body, relishing the sensation of his silken fur between my fingers. Then I lift him up to my face. We meet eye-to-eye and I steady him before he meows at me again.

"Victor," I begin, gasping, uttering each word between gasps of nervousness, "um…I'm at a loss. Will you help me?"

"Brrrrrr-aow!" is his reply.

In response, my eyes widen and eyebrows furrow. "Thank you! I'm probably going to say something that's a little awkward to you, so don't criticize me, okay? Please? You're my best buddy." As I speak to the creature in an insecure manner, my feet act on their own consciousnesses and carry me around my bedroom in small paces, weaving around all the furniture and traveling parallel with the walls.

He emits the mysterious but all-too-comforting purring sound, a signal for me to continue.

One breath in. "Angelo," I choke out in as much seriousness as I can muster at this moment, "Uh, regarding last…yesterday, I, um, wanted to talk to you…damn it!" I glance upwards and murmur for forgiveness of my bad mouth, and then I look back at Victor and shake my head from side to side before going on. "Let me start again: I don't really…_know_…what your f-feelings are toward me, al-although I have a good guess…damn it all to hell!" Once again I glance upwards and murmur for forgiveness of my bad mouth, and then I look back at Victor and shake my head from side to side. "Um, can I try again?"

In my unstable state, Victor seems to actually nod at me, adding a drawn-out, "Me-yow."

My chest rises and falls dramatically, quickly, like an exhausted animal. Blood and heat rushes to my head again. There is a fairly long pause, only to be broken by my next words. "Vi—ah, Angelo—regarding what happened yesterday, and please don't think me naïve, for I have no experience with these sorts of things, I was just wondering what you were planning on making this. This, uh, relationship between us, I mean. It's just you're so much to me—my patient, my coworker, my roommate—and I don't really know what I want you to be, exactly, or what you want me to be to you. I just wanted to know—oh, look at me!"

In a sudden and surprising motion I throw my arms into the air, loosening the grip on my cat, causing the furry brown animal to fly a few feet in the air and land across the room on his dissimilarly-colored front paws. "Aih!" he shouts in arriving on the floor.

"Look at me, Victor!" I scream. "I _must_ be insane, talking to you, a cat!" I raise my hands up, smacking one onto my face, covering an entire half, and sifting the fingers of the other through strands of my hair. I groan, the noise muffled from my mouth against my palm.

I stand there, bathed in lack of light, bound by anxiety, frozen, smitten, frustrated, overwhelmed, all represented by salty liquid welling up in my eyes and a struggling breath. I shut my eyes. All is still. Not even the whisper of rolling thunder outside my window reaches me.

A single spot of gentle force is set on my ankle. My left eye eases open slowly and sends my vision downward. Victor, cute little Victor, sits before me on the carpeted floor, cute little eyes fixed on my sappy expression, cute little socked paw up against the bottom of my leg. "Miea," he chirps. His sparkling, golden eyes give me strength and sympathy.

I sniffle once and smirk in recovery. Clicking my tongue against the roof of my mouth, I take my hands off of my head and bend down to pick up the compassionate cat. I stare at him for a minute while composing myself, holding him a few inches from me as he meets my gaze. Then I hold him against my chest. "Thank you, Victor," I whisper.

The change in my mood has stopped the swirling in my head and all those anxious thoughts. I never would have thought that neither my mind nor my body would overtake me, but my cat. This event of sorts reminds me of just why I love Victor, so much. He purrs lightly while I hold him to my breast. The smoothness of my pet's fur tingles me all over, the feeling entering my body through my fingers; this peace and contentment is, sadly, only momentary, as when I hear a deep, slightly raspy voice from the door of my bedroom greet me rather casually. "Hey, Luana."

I jump and squeak in shock, binding the kitten tighter in my arms. Awkwardly I turn around. Sure enough…Angelo Benedetto is standing _right in front of me_.

Yep, it's Angelo, my mystery-patient. He's the guy I met on that lonely, stormy day two weeks ago, shot in the chest, passed out from blood loss, to be operated on by me, without electricity or equipment, his life spared. Named by me after two lost people—one lost in death, one lost in his age. The one I held through the overcoming of his supposed addiction to cigarettes when I threw them out, providing him with a new life, a new start, which I did not know how it may be different from the life he had before. I've fed him, clothed him, unclothed him (well, his shirt, anyway), took him to my parents' graves, introduced him to my friends, embraced him, worked with him, been serenaded by him, and, as of yesterday, kissed him. Now that he's here with me for the first time since yesterday's incident, my heart flutters faintly, I go both numb and extrasensory once again, and a pink shade returns to my cheeks.

"Um…" I stutter, staring wide-eyed at him in bewilderment, scanning his face repeatedly—his silver locks, his gray-green eyes, his pale skin, his thick lips—and finally respond in a slight, pitchy tone, "H-how long have you been there?"

A tiny smirk spreads across his mouth. He blinks and chuckles. "Long enough to know that you _really_ love your cat." He shoves his left hand into his pants pocket.

I blush harder, I breathe harder, I squeeze harder, I blink harder, I blush harder I tense up, my heart beats with greater intensity. "Ah, ha," I reply breathily. That's really all I can say right then. My mouth falls ajar. He just keeps smiling at me.

Mounting pressure is palpable in the air when lightning strikes directly outside the transparent pane in the wall. I can't do anything but stare at him, captured in his angelic allure, as he stares at me. I mentally scream at myself, _say something, idiot! Say anything! _But, alas, my mouth does not move.

He comes closer to me by a few inches. Now his face is in even closer proximity to mine; so much so, I can barely feel his breath on me. Faster, harder, more painfully turns everything in my body. My mind alights. _SAY SOMETHING, LUANA! SAY SOMETHING!_

"So, um…" comes out of me—more like, is squeezed out of me by my involuntary holding my brown cat tauter than ever. The animal in my grip squeals quietly, but his purring resumes immediately afterward. I notice that I've been biting, moving, and sucking in my lips constantly since I've spotted the gunshot victim. "Listen…about…what happened yesterday…" follows.

His eyelids come over his marble eyes lightly and part just as quickly. "Uh-huh?" he asks casually.

Right then, my head spirals into a flurry. _Oh, no, he's being casual! Or is that a good thing? Oh, how I wish I could remember what Teresa always says, what I've seen Teresa do, or at the very least some movie scene about hooking up that isn't awkward? Come on, Luana Diluca! You can do this! You want this, and nothing should stand in the way of what you want._

Aw, heck. I just wing it. "Ehm—just tell me if this gets too awkward, or anything, okay? Because I seriously don't know how to put this—I'll just come right out and tell you that…I…really like you a lot, and I know this sounds kind of just plain awkward, awkward, _awkward!_, but I was wondering…would you, uh…" My face flushes. I wish now that I hadn't just winged it. But, hey, I'm already in the hole of awkwardness, so I might as well finish digging the grave. Besides, if I had not decided to just go ahead and say it, it might go unsaid forever. "bemyboyfriendorsomething?!" The last five words of my ramble are louder and higher-pitched than intended, and come out much faster than would be preferred, but _damn_—boy, do I have a bad mouth lately!—does it feel good to say that!

We stare at each other longer, me resuming my initial expression, his pasty skin actually coloring a little, gradually. His smirk widens into a grin, and then his lips part. He laughs. Laughs. Oh, God, that's not a good sign.

Angry, disappointed, and still in shock, I say in a scolding tone, "What?"

He stops laughing, and I notice then that his face is fully pink, darkening fast. Victor says, "Rah," but I don't take it into very much account. His countenance now possessing all worldly sincerity, Angelo answers me. "That's very brave of you, Luana."

A drawn-out exhalation floats out of my lungs via my nose, and suddenly the scenery of my bedroom changes. A beautiful and intricate flower garden surrounds the both of us, with a clear blue sky above and pristine brick pathways below. For a moment I am truly scared, like yesterday, when I was transported into the scary world of the mirror, but then I realize this place is familiar: Celebrazione in the springtime, when the town landscapers plant elegant flowers and shrubs and tend to the trees, the rain is common so gorgeous sunny days are appreciated much, the buildings all have a fresh coat of paint, the road has been swept and polished. We're near the docks, with the glittering water and gently rocking fishing boats of Lake Como in the background. A breeze caresses past Angelo and me, disturbing our clothes and hair only slightly, and as the birds chirp and sing, riding the wind from overtop, he lifts a pale hand up, clenches it very loosely, and puts it under my chin. He strokes my jawline with his thumb. I can picture myself now, bright red and ecstatic, clutching my kitten in my arms, unaffected by the airstream yet swept away by one gesture. He then opens the hand on my chin and slides it up to cup around my cheek, and the other follows; my face is in his hands. The patient begins to close the distance between his face and mine.

_Here it comes! Brace yourself, lips! This is not a drill!_

_Ooh…never mind._

_But this is still pleasant._

His mouth lands on my hairline. My line of sight comes directly to the nape of his neck. I close my eyes anyway, letting Angelo's discretion take control and the wind blow harder and harder.

There's a light smacking sound produced by his lips parting from my forehead. I open my eyes to find him inching away from me, his hands dropped back to his sides, and the illusion gone as we are back in my bedroom above the clinic. He presses his forehead against mine, our eyelashes meshing together and the tips of our noses grazing.

"I was coming in here to see you on the subject of yesterday, too." His voice is quiet.

I raise my eyebrows, blushing even harder than _ever_ before due to the close proximity of our mouths. "R-really?"

Angelo chuckles once. "Yeah. I was actually just going to apologize, though I will say this is much better than I expected."

The small grin he bears is barely visible to me from this angle, but I can still sense it; therefore I match the expression. "So…" I utter meekly, "…what do you say?" My target heart-rate has most definitely been reached for the day, at this point. Victor squirms about, trying to get out from in-between the silver-haired young man and me, so I let him down as gently as I can without bending down or lowering my arms too much. He makes little noise when he lands. I don't see him leave, but I don't hear from him again, either.

"Hm."

For a while that's his only response. Just a short, hushed grunt. It's unimaginable even to me how nervous I am. A knot develops at the base of my throat; a gently rolling ache throbs in my head, just like the thunder outside my window crashes through the sound barrier. _Oh, God, please say yes. Please!_

I don't realize that he's moved at all until I find our heads are disconnected and he's staring at me with a guilty countenance, like he's disappointed, like he's going to bring disappointment. The two of us stand like this for another moment of our lives. It's a tense moment, where the air is sharp and the only thing holding me up as I feel like collapsing to the floor in embarrassment. Why did I even bring this up?! What a mistake!

His hand floats upward all the sudden, comes to my face, and removes a tiny strand of hair from in front of my eyes. His scowl immediately transforms into a compassionate and satisfied smile.

"Yes."

0o.o0o.o0

_(SPECIAL! Angelo/Hayato's POV!)_

It's true, I was going in to apologize to Luana, but I heard her yelling at her cat about me so I decided to wait quietly outside her bedroom door until she was through with her contemplations.

Now I'm the conflicted one.

It seems our relationship is official now, in words, which gives me a choice. I will say that Luana is too beautiful and innocent to be in or associated with the mafia. I don't feel that she likes me, but she likes Angelo Benedetto, her reception of me. If I tell her about my real identity and about all the lies that I've been living ever since I met her, what will she think of me then? I'd feel just awful if it turned out that this was all in vain. I just want a new start, to know what life would be like if I wasn't on that collision course of the soul like I have been since birth.

She has gone, for the bulk of the day, downstairs to her work. Thankfully when Dr. Diluca came to retrieve her he did not overhear the two of us talking of our new relationship. But she and the elderly man have been absent for a few hours at the moment, leaving me to boil in my thoughts alone.

My mind is so not made up I developed a headache from the start. It's like my brain is being split into two halves: on one half, the left half, is the beautiful and pure Luana Diluca in all her innocent glory, accompanied by the strategy of hiding here in Celebrazione with her for as long as possible and not subjecting her to the dangerous and ugly living underworld; the other, right half, has far more people on it, namely the Baseball Idiot, the Stupid Cow, and the Tenth, and the background is sprinkled with sticks of dynamite, some inactivated, some lit, some exploding with fury, and the policy of truth and heartbreak.

In the past few hours of brooding, I have drank two cups of tea, downed six full glasses of water, played a few piano sonatas through in my mind, and (wished to have) smoked cigarette after cigarette. It has all amounted to nothing.

But now comes hope, in the form of a tiny, meowing beast!

Victor, my new girlfriend's beloved house-pet, approaches me with glittering yellow eyes. For the first split-second after he has entered my sight, I think of shooing him away, but my decision changes quickly.

I lift the kitten up from the floor when he arrives at my feet and set him on my lap. Immediately he recognizes me, purring and rubbing his go-to paw against my legs in all fondness. It reminds me strangely of Uri, my own box-animal-turned-pet-homicidal-leopard-cub.

"Listen, cat," I say firmly once the creature settles, meeting his gold-colored irises, "I have a pressing issue that I need help with."

He goes, "Bia!", in a tone as if he is saying, 'ask me anything, for I am amazing!'

For a moment I stare at him in disbelief, thinking to myself that I am insane for asking this upon a _cat_, but there really is no better option at this point. I breathe deep. "Should I or should I not tell Luana about the real me?"

'What do you mean?' is the cat's expression. "Ka-raaaa!" is his vocal answer, cracking at the end.

"I mean…well, you may not know this, cat, and please don't tell anyone—" I blink hard at those last four words, pretending I never said such a ridiculous phrase to a non-humanoid, "but I'm really an assassin from Japan."

"Aait," is the sound. 'You're _what_?!' is implied.

"Uh, yeah. I'm in the mafia. I've been in the mafia my entire life, but right now I'm trying to live a life—even a temporary stage in my life—without the mafia, see how different everything would be. Especially since Luana is here, and frankly I've never felt like this toward somebody before. Trouble is, it seems I can't escape my reputation, no matter where I go. I'm afraid that all this is going to explode up in my face later and ruin what I've built up. Should I straight-up tell Luana about my actual circumstances, risking her not liking me anymore and being dragged back to Japan and probably punished, or should I just keep up this lie until it crumbles apart, which it almost inevitably will?"

The young feline pauses for just a moment, then replies, "Ba-rao." His answer takes a while for me to compute, but I believe he's saying in his cat language, 'What do you think would happen if you waited until the lie died?'

I inhale sharply, once again contemplating exactly _why _I'm talking to Victor about this situation. I mean, it's one thing when I talk to Uri, because Uri is my own pet and is intelligent and special and we usually talk about either discipline or food. It's quite another to talk to a creature I am barely acquainted with that knows nothing of my past. "Ah, probably what would happen if I just told her right now. But, you know, with more time between now and when it happens."

'Is your life in Japan all that bad?'

"No, not really. I just want a little change every once in a while, that's all."

'I see. You're staying because you've found love here, and no other reason, then?'

"Not love; strong attraction. And yes, I guess you're right."

'Be nice to my owner.'

"Haven't I?"

The cat slightly switches the subject. 'You're Miss Luana's first boyfriend. Is she your first girlfriend?'

"No."

'Oh! Who?'

"Lots."

'Most recent? Most serious so far?'

I frown. "You're a fucking cat. Why should you care about my love life?"

'Answer the question, dammit.'

"Don't give me that tone, Cat! Besides, that was two questions."

He swipes at me with his claws, intended to be a direct hit to my face. I dodge him, barely, nervously. "Fine. To answer both: Haru Miura."

'How long were you two together?'

I recollect the beginning of my romantic relationship with the air-headed genius. "Um…months. Don't know how many exactly—I think three, or four. Or five."

'Were you good to her?'

"As good as I could be. Though as much as I've always thought she was cute, she frustrated the hell out of me sometimes."

'So you yelled at her?'

"No, actually. I resisted the urge to cuss her out many times."

'You've broken up?'

"Yes. We've been apart for…wow; it'll be a whole month tomorrow."

'Did you break up with her, or did she break up with you?'

"It was mutual."

'There's no such thing as a mutual breakup, stupid.'

I blush slightly. "Shut up! Can we get back to the original subject, please?"

'Did you like this "Haru" as much as you like Luana?'

"Drop! The! Subject!" At this point I'm almost screaming at the cat, in a desperate tone of voice.

There is a pause that ensues. Victor definitely gives off an air of deep thought. While he ponders, I ponder, too, once again about how totally crazy this whole conversation has been.

Finally, he replies, "Kya-aaaah!" in a yawn, which I conceive as, 'Wait. For both your sakes.'


End file.
